


Ten Other Ways

by RosaClearwater



Category: Downton Abbey, Person of Interest (TV), Pie in the Sky - Fandom, Warehouse 13
Genre: A Victor/Victoria fusion, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Jurassic Park Fusion, Blind Date Twist in Chapter 7!, Canon Diversion in Chapter 2!, Downton crosses over to NYC and fuses with POI in Chapter 6!, F/M, Gen, Jurassic Park meets Downton Abbey in Chapter 5!, Last but never least, Person of Interest Crossover, Pie in the Sky shout-out in Chapter 3!, Security Guard/Role Reversal Situation in Chapter 9!, Storyteller AU in Chapter 8!, Tattoo AU in Chapter 4!, That would be Chapter 10!, Warehouse 13 crossover in Chapter 2!, Which (of course) involves cross-dressing!, crossovers, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2020-07-28 11:29:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 40,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20063296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosaClearwater/pseuds/RosaClearwater
Summary: What do trapeze artists, artifacts, restaurants, dragons, tattoos, dinosaurs, vigilantism, keys, security officers, and crossdressing vocalists all have in common?Why, they’re all different ways life could have gone for Elsie Hughes and Charles Carson.





	1. The One With The Trapeze

**Author's Note:**

> **General Author's Note: **These ten stories are first and foremost one-shots that are designed to play with the possibilities of existence. Furthermore, all of them have already been written up and will be posted on a weekly basis. And there will also be, at the bottom of the page/after the one-shot, a **teaser **for the next one-shot
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I do not own the rights to any of the fandoms that will be referenced in this collection. That includes, but is not limited to [in alphabetical order]: _Downton Abbey, Jurassic Park, Person of Interest, Star Trek, Victor / Victoria, and Warehouse 13._
> 
> **Author's Note ****For This One-Shot: **To my incredibly talented friend and colleague — you are truly inspiring, to the point where I had to write this little piece as a tribute and have it kickstart the collection. Best of success to you in your aerial endeavors!
> 
> **Rating: **K, maybe K+
> 
> **Warnings:** None, really. Just don't do this at home unless you're a trained professional, folks!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **General Author's Note: **These ten stories are first and foremost one-shots that are designed to play with the possibilities of existence. Furthermore, all of them have already been written up and will be posted on a weekly basis. And there will also be, at the bottom of the page/after the one-shot, a **teaser **for the next one-shot
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I do not own the rights to any of the fandoms that will be referenced in this collection. That includes, but is not limited to [in alphabetical order]: _Downton Abbey, Jurassic Park, Person of Interest, Star Trek, Victor / Victoria, and Warehouse 13._
> 
> **Author's Note ****For This One-Shot: **To my incredibly talented friend and colleague — you are truly inspiring, to the point where I had to write this little piece as a tribute and have it kickstart the collection. Best of success to you in your aerial endeavors!
> 
> **Rating: **K, maybe K+
> 
> **Word Count:** 2,077
> 
> **Warnings:** None, really. Just don't do this at home unless you're a trained professional, folks!

"Ladies and gentlemen,"

The emcee redirected Charles' gaze back to the main stage area and away from staring holes into the floor. Quite frankly, now that he was at one of these shows that Charlie'd been talking about, he didn't feel all that impressed. There were some funny acts, and there was a sense of style that he'd not been able to find anywhere else, as well as an appreciation for the idea of performing in general. But, the young man didn't actually know if he wanted to do this for a living, not when it was a system like nothing he'd really seen before. He had his frustrations with servitude, having seen the draining existence his parents led, but were frustrations worth an entirely new life?

"Tonight, we have a very special treat for you."

_Really now? _He'd thought the other acts were deemed to be special, too. But, according to the suddenly energized crowd, it looked like that was not the case.

"What we have for you tonight is," This is where the emcee dramatically paused, reveling in stretching out the suspense for as long as he could. "A trapeze artist!"

The words descended about the crowd with vigor, though the audience's energy shifted in all sorts of directions at their arrival. Some grew excited at the sound, others shrugged off the performance altogether, and many echoed some form of what Charles was about to say.

"Even I know what a trapeze artist is, how's that special?" He muttered to himself, no longer as intrigued. But before he could get any other words out, he found himself being shushed by Charlie — his friend not in the mood to argue when the show was about to begin. Though, as it happens, because of Charlie's shushing, Charles couldn't fully make out the emcee's next words.

Thus, what should've produced silence only garnered more noise.

"Did he say 'dance trapeze'? What's that?" Everyone knows what a trapeze artist is, of course. But he'd never heard of the term "dance trapeze", thinking it odd that the two words were to be strewn together. How would the performer be able to _dance_ upon his trapeze bar, and why would he want to in the first place?

"Just be quiet and enjoy the show, Charlie," Grigg quickly whispered, not wanting to attract further attention with all these questions. Unbeknownst to Charles, his friend had had enough problems getting them tickets for tonight's show — so, he really didn't need them to get kicked out at the last second.

_Right. _That's what he was supposed to be here for, as per request by his new friend. After all, this evening had been orchestrated for Charles to get a taste of what life could be like if he went down this particular path — if he went the way of devotedly performing in dance halls and the likes. And though this was not the performance hall he'd be starting out in, this was a route his career could take if he wanted.

"And, now, allow me to introduce,"

Career orchestrations aside, Charles' thoughts were currently focused on the performance at hand. Truly, he couldn't help but wonder: was dance trapeze yet another thing he'd been terribly oblivious to all his life? And whether or not it was, how was the concept — an act that struck him as far more dangerous than normal — going to be performed? Was the supposed novelty worth the risks undoubtedly involved?

"The divine dancer of the sky,"

And danger aside, going back to his original question: was this a genuinely unique act? Something that truly was special? Something that he could experience for himself, that would make this kind of life worth it?

"Charlie, quit thinking and just watch for once! I can hear your thoughts all the way from here!" The hiss blocked out the emcee's official announcement of who would feature in this next act. And while not catching the name didn't lessen the young man's curiosity, it did still have an impact.

Now properly chastised by his friend and regretting that he missed one of the most important parts of the act — hearing the performer's name — the young man attempted to quiet down his mind and focus on the stage area. Luckily, even if Charlie hadn't been so quick to shut up his friend, Charles would have found himself willingly diving into silence. For, as the crowd began to hush, he glimpsed something out of the corner of his eye. Upon a second glimpse, he discovered enigmatic movement coming from the stage area, movement that signaled the act was about to begin. And with that discovery came a personal curiosity he could hardly contain.

Peering up over the individuals that blocked his vision, he watched as a young woman clutched a small bar attached to some strings, kneeling on the floor as she did so. She appeared to be practicing a breathing technique, openly smiling as she gathered herself together, preparing to do whatever it is she would be doing for the next few minutes.

_What makes this special? _Though, already he didn't think the set-up looked quite right. Not that he went out of his way to see circus performers of any type — this was honestly his first time ever seeing any version of this act in person — but Charles recalled hearing that the set-up looked a bit different than what was before him, at least in regards to the ropes system.

"This doesn't seem right," The young man had decided to voice his concern, unsure of what wasn't quite accurate but equally sure that something was.

"It's an 'experimental' version of the usual act, 'course it's gonna look a bit different." The terse explanation was followed by something that should not have sounded quite so lewd, "Either way, we should be in for quite a treat by the looks of that costume. The skin alone,"

But Charles was now pretending to be oblivious to his friend's indecent retorts, desiring to focus on this first-time experience instead of Charlie's salacious attitude. Yes, the performer was wearing an incredibly risqué outfit, revealing nearly every inch of her legs and arms as well as hinting at other feminine aspects normally hidden from sight. And, yes, that was, he could inwardly confess, pleasantly distracting in itself. But, he was here to observe the overall style of tonight's shows, not let his eyes wander across a woman whose beauty was unmistakeable even from his seat. So, he forced his mind to keep going over the fact that he'd never witnessed any kind of trapeze artist firsthand, let alone an "experimental act" like this. And by doing that, Charles could remember that he wanted to observe this all for what it was — see if the whole thing lived up to the fanfare he'd heard.

Though, before he could observe anything, he had to furtively elbow Charlie so as to remind the man _not _to openly drool in public. After that then could he give all of his attention rightfully back to her.

_Right. Well, here goes nothing._

The trapeze artist remained kneeling for a few more seconds, one hand loosely attached to the bar above her. In the distance, he faintly noticed some piano accompaniment begin to play, but Charles could only focus on the crouching performer. Bemusement about the act had mixed into his guilt about not being an entirely quiet and respectful audience member. Hence, he solely wanted to concentrate on giving all of his attention to this.

And, for once in his life, he truly only had eyes for her.

Nimbly, as though she were built for this sole purpose, the young woman gradually began to lift herself off the ground. Then she began to glide about the floor in a graceful arc, for it could only be considered that with such fluid movements. She wasn't in the air just yet, but she was picking up speed and soon would be—

As though he were the performer and not the audience, his heart galloped alongside the trapeze artist as she hurled herself into the space above her, her legs swirling up and elegantly maneuvering out in order to carry herself towards the heavens. Petrified gasps broke out amongst the crowd as the brunette, blue-eyed beauty contorted over the stalls of the music hall, deftly twisting and turning her entire body over their heads, melding into her bar as she grandly, repeatedly circled in the air above them all.

Charles found himself mesmerized throughout every bit of it — the sweeping movements that had her revolving, _sailing_, high above the crowd, the invigorating seconds where she twirled so rapidly he was mentally begging her to slow down, if only for his sake — and found his astonishment only increasing with every move. With every bend of her body, with every spin on her trapeze, he found himself increasingly grateful that they were seated. For, had there been no seat to support him, he wouldn't be able to follow her choreography half as closely.

There was one particular performance position that captivated him, one moment that stole his breath away as she languidly delved into it. The trapeze artist was practically floating above them all as she loosely sat upon her bar, all the while swiftly whirling about in a controlled manner. With her legs poised, her back exquisitely arched, the young woman looked as though she were a lady of high degree ascending to the sky. There was a breathtaking style in this, a gorgeous elegance that had him feel as though this performer could and would literally turn on a dime.

She effortlessly shifted positions in mere heartbeats, proceeding to smoothly kick her legs out into the air and stretch her body as far as she could. This was all the while leaning herself towards the crowd, with a hand extended as though she were reaching out to touch them from the heavens. One of his own hands instinctively began to reach up in response, that's how enthralling she was. Fortunately, it stopped itself before anyone noticed and discreetly retreated out of sight as he concentrated solely on watching the performer, saving any mental chastisements for after the act.

And what an act it was, too! The trapeze artist continued to regally sway and swing about the space, only focused on accomplishing the aerial feats before her. And all he could do was observe in full awe, having never dreamed of witnessing such a performance. Growing up, circus performances were always deemed incredibly undignified or grotesquely comical in his home. Now that he could finally put a legitimate scene to mind, now that he finally had a tangible picture that went far beyond what imagination had whispered into reality, there was nothing but a sense of immense respect for the performance at hand.

When the performer finally descended back to the ground, letting her body slowly arc through the air one last time as she graciously returned to the floor, it was all too soon. Charles personally felt that there should have been another part to her act, that he would've happily paid extra to see her perform for a few more minutes if not the rest of the night. And he was not alone; the ovation the woman received on completing her act eagerly shot out into the space.

"'Course, we wouldn't be doing _that_," Charlie muttered over the roaring applause. "But we would get to meet people like her, work with them if we're lucky, instead of just sitting here."

Charles was still awestruck, only able to watch as the trapeze artist exited the stage area, radiating absolute delight in every step she took. That really _had_ been quite special indeed, and definitely worthy of the abundant enthusiasm that had surrounded it. And, though he had no interest in or talent when it came to circus acts, he did have a growing desire to watch an encore of tonight's show. Not only that, the man really wanted to meet the woman who performed tonight — the artist whose name still escaped him. Put a name to the gorgeous star that swept through his thoughts and swirled around his heart long after her departure.

"'Course," His friend repeated, now smirking outright at his friend. "Knowing you, you'd just be sitting there even if you got to meet her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note: **Definitely AU in more than one way! For instance, according to my friend, dance trapeze is something that has only really occurred within the last twenty years or so. Nevertheless, this begged to be written and who am I to deny my muse?
> 
> Also, fun fact: apparently circus performers like trapeze artists and the likes did do the occasional stunt in a dance hall or equivalent back in the day. Therefore, even though this one-shot was probably terribly inaccurate in a few regards (cue a "Damn it, Jim, I'm a doctor not a trapeze artist!") there are some things I think I got right. Additionally, I did some digging: some of those circus costumes were _incredibly _risqué for the era. So much so I had to double-check that it was the Victorian era, since that'd be the approximate era this would've gone on for them, age-wise.
> 
> Moreover, if you were interested to know the music that originally accompanied my friend's performance, look up and listen to the "Montage" lyric video from the movie _Swiss Army Man_. Pay particular attention to the music during 1:50-2:43. The act itself was longer (and the music complements overall), of course, but that specific moment inspired this story. That's when my friend spun around like "a lady of high degree ascending the sky" and had me want to give the trapeze a shot.
> 
> **General Collection Note: **As previously mentioned, all pieces have essentially been written up and now only require polishing up. Therefore, keep an eye out for the next one-shot, _The One With The Warehouse_. This one is a crossover with the TV show _Warehouse 13 _and should come out by next Wednesday night (PST). Better still, take a look at a little teaser for what's in store...
> 
> **Teaser for** "The One With The Warehouse"**:**
> 
> "Dude, is she okay? Because, I'm not convinced. Like, at all."
> 
> Artie Nielsen did not glare at Claudia Donovan's question, knowing that it came from a place of concern. Obviously, the teenage girl recognized the look of suffering this stranger clung to in the silence. The redheaded American undoubtedly saw it as a parallel of how life was for her when her brother Joshua seemed lost forever, when he was just out of reach and her parents were long gone. And since the stranger in question was oblivious to their presence — no doubt, a result of the time loop that brought the two agents here in the first place — Claudia could be as blunt as she liked.
> 
> "She'll be okay." Though he's felt sympathy for this unknown woman all these years, this exhausted individual who wearily continued to stand in the center of this grand and defeated hall, the situation was a construct of an artifact. This could all be solved, everything could be neutralized through their efforts, and this ever-present grief could be put to rest. "Nothing's changed."
> 
> Essentially, his current theory was that the situation was brought about by a memory from an earlier time, a memory that was triggered by an artifact and repetitively came to life on a nightly basis. Long story short, as the portly man had explained to his charge on the plane, it was an equivalent of the movie _Groundhog Day_. Hence, it was harmless in the grand scheme; there had been and would probably be no repercussions from letting this scene of grief play out once a year.
> 
> _Though, I don't remember her—_
> 
> "Wait, so you've been here before?"
> 
> _Of course I've been here before, Claudia. _The naive question incurred a slight, disbelieving scoff from the agent. Said scoff soon shifted into a sigh of bemusement that quickly gave way to thinly veiled vexation — bemusement from the memories now being triggered, vexation from his charge's lack of attention.
> 
> Though, was it really Claudia's fault that this cold case, this quiet enigma that had captivated Downton Abbey every night for the last eighty years, had haunted his innermost thoughts all this time?


	2. The One With The Warehouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note: **Would you believe this is an AU crossover that simultaneously takes place in part of the show? Also, I'll be taking a few liberties with some things. It should all be explained by the end of this one-shot, but I figured I'd give a heads up.
> 
> **Disclaimer: **I do not own either _Downton Abbey _or _Warehouse 13._
> 
> **Technical Note To Make the Reading Easier: **When the words "_Look like this" _that means at least one person is singing.
> 
> **Rating: **K+ for language and themes
> 
> **Word Count: **3,292
> 
> **Warning:** Series 3 angst and slight language. Like, we're discussing major character deaths angst (which can bring out angst and colorful language) and Americans will be involved (Americans, in this case, who don't care what words they use *looking at you, Claudia Donovan*).

The song had called to her long before she entered the Great Hall, the inappropriately cheerful tune managing to mock her pain all throughout the day. This wasn't the first time the music had inched through her mind, but it was the first time the woman couldn't shake off the incessantly optimistic melody — the imagined lyrics far louder than ever before.

_"Look for that silver lining"_

Its message had snuck into her thoughts the moment she'd seen that abandoned record, the one that silently begged her to recall Lady Sybil's fondness for the piece. The musical it came from may have flopped, but that had hardly deterred the youngest Crawley sister from playing the piece from time to time. In fact, the young lady had been seen on many occasions listening to this record in particular. So much did she treasure it, her father had banished to the attic only a day after she passed — if only for the sake of the ladies of the house and not for his own grief, of course.

_"Whenever a cloud appears in the blue."_

Still, it did not remain lost to the world forever. The servant who now stood in this hall had once found herself in the attic one afternoon, having had some trivial reason for being in the gloomy space. Well, whatever the original reason had been, it had been abandoned to the dust at the sight of that record tucked away. Instead, memories she would have deemed foolish sprang to mind, wading into the darker sections of her thoughts. And, with all of those recollections, a dreaded guilt followed.

After all, _she_ had been the one who escaped death. She was the one who walked away from a cancer scare while Lady Sybil was the one mercilessly struck down weeks later. Although a small part of her recognized that Lady Sybil's death had not resulted from her escape from illness, a far larger part of the servant held onto the belief that none of this was right. That the loveliest spirit in the house, the one person she personally felt had the largest potential for life, shouldn't be the one gone.

_"Remember, somewhere the sun is shining,"_

When remorse had swum through her vision at the sight of that damn record, shame mercilessly burrowing itself into her breath, the abandoned object had been left alone.

Months had passed. And then death cruelly struck again. Mr. Crawley was killed, right at the birth of his child, nearly one year later. And with his death that larger part of her returned, the part determined to illustrate how wrong this all was. Unable to resist recognizing the eerie parallels, she found herself unwillingly noticing the terrible similarities between the two tragedies.

The servant also couldn't help but recall how unfortunately lucky she herself had been once again, how this loss of life was once more disgustingly unfair. It seemed the thought that these individuals were not her family, that her employers were only the people that paid her, had faded ever since her own brush with death. By the time the car accident had claimed Mr. Crawley, she could only feel as though she had lost another of her own. She now understood what a dear friend had meant when he'd spoken of such feelings — a conversation that now felt like ages ago even though it had been less than ten years.

_My, how the world changes._

Now, she would not normally dream of entertaining what, in another person, she would have usually declared as foolishly deprecating thoughts. But, grief was a haze — a horrid fogginess that clouded logic and allowed for the fears of the subconscious to take hold of reality. So, the servant found herself struggling against maintaining a rational grasp on the situation, found herself unable to dismiss her feelings. And, thus found herself on a path she never thought she'd take.

_"And so the right thing to do is to make it shine for you."_

It hadn't taken long to find the record again. Feeling as though it was her duty to make sure the thing wasn't haphazardly tossed aside, the servant had taken charge of it. Guarded it, to remind herself of the two souls lost. Kept an eye on it, held onto the thing as though it were a penance she deserved for outliving what should've been her fate. It stayed hidden in her room, being the lone exception that proved the rule she frequently reminded her subordinates of:

_Nothing in this house is ours._

Well, it wasn't hers.

But it was hers to protect.

And, tonight, it was hers to play. To bring into the Great Hall once everyone had gone to bed, to carefully place onto that very same gramophone that started this all, and release the song once again. To revel in its memories, to allow it the capability of producing a fitting tribute for the lost souls it had once carried.

Gently lifting the record and delicately placing it onto the gramophone, the woman tightly clutched the needle that would inevitably play the sound. And as her hand slowly brought the needle to the appropriate part of the record, old thoughts stitched themselves into her new actions. Where was the fairness in any of this? Why was a servant far past her prime allowed to live and why did two young individuals who had so much potential and opportunity have to die? And, for that matter—

"Where is this supposed silver lining?"

The question had swiveled about her shame the first time she'd was reminded of the record, but it wasn't a question frigid with anger. Anger had swept into her heart on several occasions this last year, yes. And it was anger that kept her company when she felt lost to the world, lost to the system she'd given most of her life to. But now? In these rare seconds she had to herself? It wasn't anger that reigned over her thoughts. Rather, it was only pure anguish. Sorrow for the losses so near to heart, losses that should not have occurred for decades to come. Anguish and guilt. Guilt for surviving when she had accepted her supposed fate, shame for outliving those whose lives were snatched without a second thought.

_How is this fair? How is this right?_

She almost lost herself to these thoughts. And had it not been for the crackly quality of the record as it began, she would've been stuck there in that hall for an infinite amount of time. But at the sound of the song beginning, the woman snatched the needle away — silencing the scene. She had regained control of her thoughts in that crackling moment, realizing that playing the music would only alert all those sleeping to her actions and would hardly be conducive to continuing her role in the house.

Having no idea what came over her, the woman forced a step backwards from the device, unsure of herself.

Little did she know, it was too late.

The record, safely positioned in the gramophone, glowed for only a second after she forcefully turned away from the sight — deeply ashamed she allowed her grief to play with possessions that weren't her. Had she caught a maid doing this, the subordinate would have been sternly warned if not sacked on the spot.

Taking another step away from the device, keeping her back firmly to it and, consequently, missing its glow recede into darkness, Elsie Hughes took a shuddering breath to regain her bearings. Then and only then, in the stifling quiet of the night, did she let herself stand in the balance of unshed tears and misery she felt she didn't deserve.

Truly, it was all _so _wrong.

_._

"You didn't tell me we were going to a _castle_!"

"Weren't you paying attention on the eight-hour flight over here? Did you read your brief _at_ _all_?"

"Uh, duh. Artie, all you said was it was called 'Downton Abbey', not 'Downton Castle'."

"Claudia, that would be because it was an abbey. According to our archives,"

"Please, please, _please_ save the history lesson for the morning. I'm not Myka — I don't need to know every single detail. And I definitely don't need to know anything at 5 A.M, our time."

"It's six in the evening in South Dakota — you do know how time zones work, right?"

"'Course I do! Who do you think I am, Pete? Still don't need the history lesson, by the way."

_Why do I even bother? _"Fine. You want to wander into this without knowing a damn thing? You get to wait for me outside."

"Outside? In the middle of nowhere, England? At night? Artie, you'd really do that to a fellow agent?"

"How many times do I have to tell you that you're _not_ a field agent, Claudia?"

"Geeze, you electrocute a guy once and he never trusts you again. Oh, wait, maybe it's actually _me_ who should be having the trust issues, professor. After all, you're the one gave up the search for Joshua in the first place."

"Claudia, we don't have time for this—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah — I heard you the first time. We've only got thirty minutes to find that ghost woman person memory thing, and then it's about neutralizing whatever artifact has been messing with her and the house. We going into this haunted castle or not?"

_._

As the butler of the house, he always felt remiss in his duties if he failed to thoroughly conduct his nightly rounds. And though he had already done just that about an hour ago, there was a dark feeling that niggled at his thoughts. A worrying instinct that quietly carried him back down into the depths of the abbey and had him patrol the halls once again.

That's where he came upon her standing in the middle of the Great Hall. That's how he confirmed his suspicions that his colleague wasn't obtaining the rest she required.

That's when he saw how tormented his dear friend was.

Concernedly watching from the shadows, knowing she was oblivious to his presence, the man worriedly kept his eyes on her now trembling form. He knew that his capability of blending into the scenery allowed him this chance to bemusedly, anxiously, observe from a distance.

She really had no idea that her poignant display of melancholy was being glimpsed by another, that her guilt-ridden countenance was on display for anyone to see. She was clueless to the fact that his worry rose every second this continued, that he wanted to make his presence known the longer she detachedly stood in the darkness of the Great Hall. That, the more his friend wallowed in what she would normally classify as distastefully pointless angst, the more he wanted to comfort her however he could.

But, something changed before he could react, something unknown reflected in her eyes and coldly glinted in the darkness. What it was exactly, he didn't have a chance to figure out. As it stood, he didn't have time to guess: an empty, weak chuckle had flung itself into the air, her eyes remaining disturbingly glassy as she continued to shake with repressed grief. And as she remained numbly standing in the middle of the hall, he couldn't help the desperate step he took toward her.

This was _all_ so wrong.

_._

"Dude, is she okay? Because, I'm not convinced. Like, at all."

Artie Nielsen did not glare at Claudia Donovan's question, knowing that it came from a place of concern. Obviously, the teenage girl recognized the look of suffering this stranger clung to in the silence. The redheaded American undoubtedly saw it as a parallel of how life was for her when her brother Joshua seemed lost forever, when he was just out of reach and her parents were long gone. And since the stranger in question was oblivious to their presence — no doubt, a result of the time loop that brought the two agents here in the first place — Claudia could be as blunt as she liked.

"She'll be okay." Though he's felt sympathy for this unknown woman all these years, this exhausted individual who wearily continued to stand in the center of this grand and defeated hall, the situation was a construct of an artifact. This could all be solved, everything could be neutralized through their efforts, and this ever-present grief could be put to rest. "Nothing's changed."

Essentially, his current theory was that the situation was brought about by a memory from an earlier time, a memory that was triggered by an artifact and repetitively came to life on a nightly basis. Long story short, as the portly man had explained to his charge on the plane, it was an equivalent of the movie _Groundhog Day_. Hence, it was harmless in the grand scheme; there had been and would probably be no repercussions from letting this scene of grief play out once a year.

_Though, I don't remember her—_

"Wait, so you've been here before?"

_Of course I've been here before, Claudia._ The naive question incurred a slight, disbelieving scoff from the agent. Said scoff soon shifted into a sigh of bemusement that quickly gave way to thinly veiled vexation — bemusement from the memories now being triggered, vexation from his charge's lack of attention.

Though, was it really Claudia's fault that this cold case, this quiet enigma that had captivated Downton Abbey every night for the last eighty years, had haunted his innermost thoughts all this time?

Still, even if that lack of knowledge wasn't her fault, she should've been paying attention earlier!

"As I told you on the _eight-hour_ flight over, this case has been open for awhile, kid."

"How long's awhile, old man? The Cretaceous Period?" She snarked, unable to resist the jibe. He gave a mixture of a scoff and snort, not interested in the age jokes tonight.

"It's been twenty years since I was last here." Twenty years of detouring via missions and realizing that the Warehouse simply couldn't afford to solve what was deemed only a little problem. Case after case, artifact after artifact found the older man unable to return to this place until tonight.

But, now it looked like this case really had been in a sort of stasis all that time — not causing damage to the world, even when left unsolved for several decades. Just as the Regents had predicted, just as Mrs. Frederic had warned him after his third inquiry.

The supervising field agent still couldn't leave this alone.

"Why didn't you solve it back then?"

Sharp, defensive irritation sparked at the audacious question, the man turning back to his charge. "Because there hadn't been enough time, Claudia, why else? I had_ less than a night_ to figure it out."

"Geeze, gramps, give a girl some breathing space." She retorted, crossing her arms in the process as she gave him her own scowl. "Just because I'm younger than this case doesn't mean you have to get all grumpy on me."

"Claudia," He began, more than a little irritated from the lengthy flight and the exhausting situation as a whole. But the young teen wasn't going to stop talking, not by a long shot.

"I mean, I understand that you, as a jet-lagged grumposaur," Eyebrows furrowing as a scowl emitted — nobody ever dared to call him a 'grumposaur' before. "Wouldn't be able to understand how— hey, where'd she go?!"

Eyes shut themselves in frustration for only a second, a self-deprecating thought prodding his thoughts. And it was with a wary edge that the senior agent turned back to the spot that the woman had stood. Yup, just as his charge had loudly pointed out, the stranger had vanished into thin air.

Just like the last time.

_Artie Nielsen, you're an idiot._ How could he have wasted a chance to solve a time-sensitive case by getting frustrated with a kid who was still figuring out her way in the world? It's not as though her comments were anything other than witty snarks and playful barbs. And, he'd been doing this job for enough years that her comments shouldn't have been more than a minuscule blip on his radar tonight.

"She totally disappeared on us!" Claudia spelled out the obvious, bewilderment taking hold of her tone. Her sympathy for the stranger's plight had temporarily disappeared, only vast confusion remaining. "But nothing happened! No glowy objects, no wind effects, nothing!"

"Like I said," Artie kept on staring right at the spot the woman had once been standing, his personal disappointment strangling his thoughts as his stare deadened. Another night wasted because of his stupidity. And now they'd need to wait yet another year for any potential resolution. "Nothing's changed."

Just like that day twenty years ago, she vanished without a trace.

But, this time, he wasn't going to just leave this—

"Wait, who's he?" Unfortunately, the teen's words weren't reaching her supervisor's ears right now. The American was still berating himself for missing yet another opportunity to solve this mystery. "Artie, who's Jeeves?"

"Claudia, what are you talking about?" But he was already turning back in the direction her focus lay, eyes widening as he saw another figure step into sight. "That did _not_ happen last time."

They watched the man, a servant based off the uniform, cautiously enter the hall and walk to the same spot that the mysterious woman had been. And when the servant didn't react to any of Claudia's high-pitched questions, questions loud enough no one could possibly ignore them, Artie had to assume the man was another part of the time-loop.

"What do you mean that didn't happen last time?" Insistent that her fellow American explain himself, that he shed some light on the situation, the teen got straight to the point with another question. "Artie, what does that mean?"

"It means, Claudia," Having tossed aside his frustration when "Jeeves" appeared, the senior field agent unconsciously ran his hand through his frazzled hair, thinking it all over. "That the case has changed."

He remembered what had happened twenty years like it was yesterday: having searched the downstairs area of Downton before getting to the upstairs sections, he had only seen the woman stand in this hall for about ten minutes. Then, after ascertaining that she existed in some sort of memory or time-loop, he had gone about neutralizing potential artifacts in the room. Nothing had worked, but she had still managed to disappear in the process.

"And what does that mean, Artie? That the case has changed?"

At first, the agent thought he'd solved the mystery, even though nothing had been officially neutralized. When he'd found out a few years later that a mysterious woman had been sighted in the building late one night after his visit, he knew nothing could be further from the truth. But then, life got in the way. More "noteworthy" cases built upon themselves, more pressing artifacts demanded his attention for the next twenty years or so. More of what he now felt were stupid excuses came into his path, detaining him from figuring out this mystery and letting the grief finally rest.

"Artie?"

But he had never forgotten this case.

Not for one minute.

"It means," The portly man began to repeat, turning to his charge even as he kept a sharp eye on the servant. The implication that they could still see this servant as he quickly strode out of the hall was both reassuring and disconcerting — the man's presence was an undeniable indicator that something had changed, whether that was for better or worse. "That this is _not_ over."

And, with that, there was only one final conclusion to claim:

This was all so very, very _wrong_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** Who else loves a good, angst-filled mystery?
> 
> Also, if this seems particularly OOC due to its angst, I'd like to mention two things: firstly, in retrospect, if Mrs. Hughes didn't end up feeling some form of survivor's guilt when Sybil passed, I'd be _very _surprised. Secondly, all of the character-typical grief has been magnified by an artifact. Thus, as I tried to illustrate in parts of the story, she (and the house altogether) is being influenced by something else. Still confused? Check out "**Explanation for Warehouse 13**". And if that doesn't answer your questions, feel free to ask away.
> 
> **Explanation for Warehouse 13:** For those who are still confused: picture a never-ending warehouse currently in the middle of nowhere, South Dakota. This warehouse holds quite possibly millions of historical artifacts that have been imbued with some sort of scientific "magic". This ranges from Harriet Tubman's thimble (designed to completely disguise a person) to Charles Dickens' Badminton Racket (makes someone to believe that they're an orphan) to Mata Hari's stockings (causes anyone who touches them to be thoroughly seduced).
> 
> Now how do our two Americans fit into this? Claudia Donovan and Artie Nielsen make up a team of a group of people that go out into the world, neutralize dangerous artifacts that people are using, and store said artifacts in the warehouse for safekeeping. Normally, these two would be in Warehouse as admins. But, this time, they are returning to a very old, very personal case at Downton. The reason? They're trying to figure out what artifact exists in Downton Abbey that has been creating a time loop for about 80 years.
> 
> And, now, a "trailer" for next week's one-shot...
> 
> **Teaser for** "The One With The Restaurant"**:**
> 
> "_Elsie, how are you?" _It was a distorted and muffled voice that answered her, one that she couldn't quite make out or place. Still, the words weren't threatening, and she never came across a phone where there was a perfection connection. So, there was no harm in continuing the conversation, now was there?
> 
> "I'm sorry, who is this?"
> 
> "_I hear you're going to be working as an accountant for the Painswick's. It's great news." _Thinking she recognized the speaker — how many people knew of her latest job? It could only be one particular friend — Elsie smiled and eased a little when it came to her apprehension.
> 
> "Albert, is that you?"
> 
> "_Because I pass through Sommersby myself. Maybe we'll bump into each other." _She didn't know why he wasn't just telling her who he was, but the longer this enigmatic caller kept talking the more she went back to feeling unsettled about it. There was no reason to raise the alarm just yet, but years of being a policeman's wife had trained her to remain vigilant in situations where it felt off.
> 
> And this little phone call was the most "off" she'd felt in days.


	3. The One With The Restaurant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note: **My sincerest apologies for those expecting a sci-fi crossover tonight; I found myself unable to follow through with the original idea. The sci-fi piece is completely written up and I'd be down to share it later, but I just finished a brilliant show (one of the best shows I've watched in awhile, actually) and I had to do a tribute to it. Very impulsive, very unexpected, but it feels absolutely like the right thing to do.
> 
> **Rating: **K+, maybe a very light T
> 
> **Word Count:** 1,632
> 
> **Warnings:** Very, very slight language and references to adult themes.
> 
> **Disclaimer: **I do not own either _Downton Abbey_ or _Pie in the Sky_, though I absolutely did borrow the dialogue from the latter :)

Glancing over the luncheon and dinner menus in order to make sure everything was perfectly sorted out, Elsie spared an exasperated look in a certain someone's direction. This hadn't been the first time he'd gone and critiqued another restaurant and, knowing her luck, it wouldn't be the last. No, Charles Carson wouldn't be able to go a week without making some sort of critical remark involving food.

This time, though, she was not having it.

"I really don't know why you had to go and upset Ethel's chef like that. It was a perfectly decent meal."

As per usual, the individual in question hardly felt the need for such a pointed tone from his wife. Why would he, after all, when the food industry was his heart and soul, the very thing that kept him trudging through a disheartening job? Oh, yes, Elsie Carson had long since given up on convincing her husband to play nice with others in the restaurant business ever since she realized how much of a passion it all was for him.

And, of course, he had no real shame about the fact that he was overly critical of Ethel's chef. Rather, Charles' response was a rather light, "I didn't upset her chef! All I did was ask a perfectly innocent question about the navarin of lamb, that's all."

_A likely story and certainly one that I don't believe for a minute. _"Charlie, you never ask innocent questions, what with being a policeman all these years. I might add that you manage to make 'How are you?' sound like an interrogation, not to mention—"

But before she could continue with this little reprimand of hers, their lovely server Rose MacClare — a woman still new to the job, even if she had great gusto — was curiously interjecting, "Would this be the chef at Laxton House?"

Nodding at the question, Elsie continued back to her original line of thought. It hadn't been irritation at her husband initially; rather, it'd been understandable sympathy for her friend. "Poor old Ethel. She's got enough to worry about as it is."

But he wouldn't be Charles Carson if he didn't chime back into the conversation and interrupt, "We've got enough enough to worry about as it is, now that you mention it. Though I'm still not sure what issues Ethel could possibly be having, the kitchen was fairly decent..."

Elsie felt herself coming to a stop at her husband's words, not quite flustered but not quite put-together. After all, she knew Ethel's fiancé was acting rather unusual for someone who was engaged. Truthfully, she suspected there may be an affair in that regard, much as she'd like to think otherwise. And that possibility, on top of the natural stress that came with running a restaurant, meant that Ethel had her deepest sympathies.

"Yeah," Rose now realized what her boss and the accountant of the Pie in the Sky was referring to. "I've seen Bryant posing down at the Purple Ploughman."

"The 'Purple Ploughman'?" Charles repeated, disbelief colouring his words more than anything else. Clearly, he didn't think such a name was possible, especially not for a respectable establishment.

"Yes, apparently, it's a nightclub down in Brayfield." Mary Crawley, the server who has been with the Carsons since the start of Pie in the Sky, primly explained. "It's the only establishment around this area that's open late, so you tend to get a lot of waiters and a lot of chefs at all hours."

"Favourite haunt of yours, is it?" The chef casually put to the server, a bit curious and somewhat amused by the image of her being in a place called "The Purple Ploughman". It honestly didn't seem like it suited her, but he was hardly one to judge when it came to this sort of thing.

Or, at least, he was hardly one to judge about it after marrying Elsie. The Scottish woman had a tendency to put some of his snobbish tendencies into perspective.

"Certainly not! All that noise and smoke?" Mary shook her head disapprovingly, a thin frown on her face as she disdainfully switched the subject. "Anyway, I've Tolstoy to finish by the end of the year. _That _is far more interesting than anything that place could offer."

And even though the server had changed the subject, Charles — ever the policeman — continued to mull it over. Although the establishment had a ridiculous name, there was a bit of intrigue to the premise. A little food for thought, if he could indulge in the trivial pun.

"Late night drinking dens for chefs? I think I ought to check that out."

"I think not," Elsie retorted, already imaging the critiques her husband would bestow upon the place. The cutlery would be wrong for the meals being served, the lighting too grotesque and unsuitable, and don't even get him started on what they called a steak-and-kidney pie. She'd seen it all before in their many years of marriage, moments that had her eyes looking upward for strength and her lip being bitten into to keep from getting too exasperated with her daft man. But before the accountant could finish voicing her thought, the restaurant's main telephone was ringing, demanding her immediately attention. "Excuse me,"

Slipping past Charles and gently pushing him out of the way of the phone so she could take the call, she answered the phone with a disarming, "Hello, Pie in the Sky?"

"_Elsie, how are you?" _It was a distorted and muffled voice that answered her, one that she couldn't quite make out or place. Still, the words weren't threatening, and she never came across a phone where there was a perfection connection. So, there was no harm in continuing the conversation, now was there?

"I'm sorry, who is this?"

"_I hear you're going to be working as an accountant for the Painswick's. It's great news." _Thinking she recognized the speaker — how many people knew of her latest job? It could only be one particular friend — Elsie smiled and eased a little when it came to her apprehension.

"Albert, is that you?"

"_Because I pass through Sommersby myself. Maybe we'll bump into each other." _She didn't know why he wasn't just telling her who he was, but the longer this enigmatic caller kept talking the more she went back to feeling unsettled about it. There was no reason to raise the alarm just yet, but years of being a policeman's wife had trained her to remain vigilant in situations where it felt off.

And this little phone call was the most "off" she'd felt in days.

"Okay, okay, come on, the joke's over. Who is this?" Because if it wasn't Albert, then she was definitely at a lost for who it might be.

But, the speaker was hardly deigned to introduce themselves. Seemed they preferred to opt for a bit of mystery. "_Better still, I could pop 'round to the restaurant while Charlie's out playing detective, because I think I could really do something for you, Elsie. Quite a few things, actually. Are you alone? If you are, I'll tell you exactly what I had in mind."_

Right. There were many things Elsie Carson, née Hughes, was. An accountant, a person who thought food only needed to taste decently to be enjoyed, etc. Being someone who accepted this sort of indecorous behaviour from an individual bent on causing trouble was not one of those many things she took to being.

"No, I'm afraid you won't, you—" Pervert would be too kind a word for him, in her opinion. Bastard was probably a little too much and would shock Charles no doubt, but she wasn't entirely disinclined to throw it into the conversation. "And if you dare to ring me again, _I'll_ do something for _you_, believe me!"

Slamming the phone back to its rightful place, she took a moment to herself to process that disturbing conversation. Releasing a heavy sigh of incredulity as though it would push the creepiness away, she took a step away from the phone. Then, letting go of a lighter sigh — one that was relieved that she no longer had to deal with such disgusting behaviour — she began to get back to the menus that needed her attention.

Little did Elsie know, her daft husband had taken notice of the entire interaction. And Charles Carson, being one to bemusedly deduce and solve many a mystery over the years, didn't like the puzzle before him. He rarely saw his wife look so disconcerted, least of all from a call in the restaurant. It probably was inconsequential in the grand scheme of life, but he didn't like it one bit.

"Not somebody wanting to book a table, I presume."

"No." Elsie bluntly stated, biting her lip at the thought of having to deal with that creepy caller in the first place. Never having encountered that type over the phone, she didn't really know what he was capable of. The stranger was probably just all talk and would scurry away the second the police were phoned. Still, she didn't like this situation in the slightest.

However, her feeling uncomfortable with the matter was not the real problem. Unfortunately, the real problem was something that dear Elsie Carson had not known at the time. One teensy little issue that would be trailing after her for the next few days, if not for long afterwards:

It would take a hockey stick, another one of those blasted phone calls, a hell of a lot of sleuthing _and_ a confrontation with said hockey stick to solve this particular case. And when she and her husband finally did solve it, neither one of them would want to be anywhere near a telephone anytime soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** Definitely have to say, _Pie in the Sky _is a fabulous show. For those who've never heard of it, here's the basic premise:
> 
> Detective Inspector Henry Crabbe is weeks away from retiring as a police officer and getting a chance to run his own restaurant for his retirement. But, that all goes awry when an outranking officer decides it's not time for Crabbe to retire just yet. Five seasons of fascinating mystery mixed with cooking lessons, it's definitely a delightful show that I highly recommend!
> 
> And, now, our teaser for "The One With The Tattoo":
> 
> **Teaser for** "The One With The Tattoo"**:**
> 
> Long before heart disease had taken Amelia Mason, she'd taken up drawing as a hobby. With that came many, many sketches of whatever caught her interest — birds, the sky, farm lands, and more. In particular, her passion was trees. No matter the shape nor size, Amelia had always been drawn to trees.
> 
> When she finally passed away, all of her works had been hidden away from the world — far too painful for her husband Albert to handle at the time. Yet, when a drawing depicting a gorgeous hawthorn was accidentally unearthed, the tree apparently a particular favourite of Amelia, the idea had come at once:
> 
> What if father and son were to get matching tattoos of her art?


	4. The One With The Tattoo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **General Author's Note**: In this instance, this is dedicated to my sister - who taught me how to appreciate the art and symbolism that comes with tattoos. I personally had never delved into the subject until last year, but now that I've gotten a chance to properly learn about it I'm delighted I did.
> 
> **Rating: **K+, maybe T
> 
> **Word Count: **3,467
> 
> **Warnings:** Inklings of modern-day angst, and mentioning of losing a loved one. No major character deaths, mind.

Never before had he ever imagined entering such an establishment as the one looming before him.

_The Twisted Slivers._

"Thank you for coming with me and William, Charlie."

Of course, never before had he ever had a legitimate reason for doing so.

"It's my pleasure, Albert."

Charles Carson looked at the two men before him, knowing that there was now a perfectly acceptable reason for entering the tattoo parlour. When illness had taken Amelia Mason less than a year ago, the family had been cast into a darkness that the family friend had never wanted to ever witness. The Mason family would never quite recover from the loss, not fully, that much had been evident. Yet, Charles had been there to support his old friend through it all. And, now, months after the funeral there was one last thing to do, one last tribute to make that involved this building.

It had been William's idea, actually — much to the surprise of the two older men. But when it was taken into consideration that he was his mother's son through and through, it wasn't all that surprising.

Long before heart disease had taken Amelia Mason, she'd taken up drawing as a hobby. With that came many, many sketches of whatever caught her interest — birds, the sky, farm lands, and more. In particular, her passion was trees. No matter the shape nor size, Amelia had always been drawn to trees.

When she passed, all of her works had been hidden away from the world — far too painful for Albert to handle at the time. Yet, when a drawing depicting a gorgeous hawthorn was accidentally unearthed, the tree apparently a particular favourite of Amelia, the idea had come at once:

What if father and son were to get matching tattoos of her art?

To carry the vibrant memory of a wonderful mother and wife, that had been William's reasoning. To have her with them no matter what's going on, to know that she's living on in their memory and through her artwork.

Once the idea was proposed, the young man hardly needed to elaborate. His father had understood why in a heartbeat, even if he wasn't sure matching tattoos were the route to go. Surely, framing the art in their home was as suitable in this day and age?

That's how Charles ended up getting involved. In an effort to remain honest and neutral with one another, the Masons had involved their dear family friend without hesitation. He would be candid enough to give a candid opinion _and _considerate enough to think every aspect through. There wouldn't be an obligation to propriety or tradition in this case; his loyalty to the Mason family was far more powerful than the suppositions of society. Therefore, they could rely on him to be straight with them and kind enough to consider if this was right for them.

So, one September day, they had asked. On a drafty autumn day when the thoughts of life were pressed a bit harder, they impressed upon the family friend the importance of the question being put to him. In other, simpler terms, they had asked, gave him a moment to think it over, and waited for their friend to deliver his gut reaction.

The best part?

When Charles had heard of William's suggestion, he immediately found himself all for it. Any shock he carried had only existed purely because it was obvious this was a perfect way to honor her memory — a realization that had floored both him and the Masons.

Now it was true that tattoos personally did nothing for him and he would never dare to tread in such a setting if he could help it. However, just because he felt this way didn't mean Amelia wouldn't have been honoured by the whole thing. And, upon seeing Albert's eyes well up at the thought alongside William's earnest expression as he explained the idea, Charles could tell that this was something the Mason family would treasure through the years. That it was less of a gaudy display and more of a tender tribute to a loved one.

Nevertheless, just because he had been the one to suggest they go through with it — after they did thorough research of venues and the best ways to go about this, of course — did not mean he'd been expecting to be invited along when they finally went. Charles had already concluded that he'd receive a text and a picture of the end result, or maybe a phone-call after the whole appointment was finished.

Yet, here they were and here he was, too.

"Well, we can be sure of one thing," Albert remarked to them all, bemusedly gazing up at the sign as they remained standing outside the parlour. "She can't hold our appointment time forever."

"Right." And with William's assent Albert was off, the older man beginning to walk into the shop with his son faithfully trailing behind. Only Charles remained standing outside the establishment, having been taken aback by one small detail.

"'She'?"

But, once he realized that the family had gone inside, he had to put aside his thoughts and follow them. Sure, his imaginations of a traditional tattoo artist were definitely not of any woman doing the work. And, yes, he had no idea how he felt about a woman being the one to do the tattooing for Albert and William. But, he could only suppose that if the Masons had already visited and set everything up, they were comfortable with the peculiar set-up. Which meant he ought to just stop overthinking the whole thing and actually follow them inside.

"Albert, William, I'm so glad you could make it!" Greetings were already in process by the time Charles made inside the shop, the family friend still trying to shake off his hesitations about this. "And you even brought a friend!"

Surprisingly enough, the man found himself not as scandalized by the layout as he had always imagined. All of the walls were covered in the artists' work — some of which were certainly _not_ appropriate for a younger audience — and there was an audaciously rousing tone to the music playing in the background. However, the atmosphere almost seemed more freeing than crass, the intonations in the air speaking of unconventionality but not brash rebellion.

Furthermore, the appearance of the heavy-set, redheaded woman before him definitely did help to allay his concerns. With artwork adorning so much of her body — artwork dedicated mostly to the culinary arts, it seemed — Charles somehow felt as though that meant she'd be a considerate artist who he could trust with this task. Maybe it was only his brain trying to justify the experience. But he usually found that someone who had an appreciation for food usually also had an appreciation for getting things right and perfecting all of the details. Which was absolutely a characteristic he admired, as well as something that reassured him things would probably work out just fine with this.

"Beryl, this is my friend Charles." Albert said, quite happy to introduce them. "Charles, this is our brilliant artist, Beryl." The woman blushed a bit at this, not used to hearing people genuinely think of her as brilliant. That in itself just went to show why she'd been looking especially forward to this appointment, among other nice reasons that she wouldn't be sharing with the family friend anytime soon.

"So, this is the infamous Charles Carson," The tattoo artist remarked, grinning as she held out a hand for him to shake. His own hand halted before it, a little stunned that he'd been mentioned before. "It's a pleasure."

"Likewise." The man had managed to get out, looking rather out of his comfort zone. It was one thing to observe an artist in her space, it was another thing to make any form of tangible contact with said artist.

"Don't worry, Mr. Carson," A new voice spoke up from the doorway leading into the main area of the shop, once he finally exchanged grips with the tattoo artist. "You won't absorb the ink by shaking her hand."

Beryl grinned, dropping her hand before Charles could do anything else — already turning back to the other woman.

"Albert, William, Charles, allow me to introduce Elsie Hughes."

Charles peered over her shoulder, searching for the source of his newfound discomfort. Rarely did people tease him in quite that fashion, and it was mainly due to the fact that they thought him overtly arrogant or snobbish. Yes, well, if this woman thought she could make such assumptions before actually beginning to know him, then he was not interested in any introduction—

Perhaps it was due to the surreal experience of defying his own expectations today and entering such an abode, but Charles found himself immediately and inordinately mystified by Elsie Hughes. The auburn haired woman, standing in the back area and just out of sight from the entrance of shop, comfortably met his inquisitive gaze. And by peering into those blue irises, realizing that there was no malice within them, he realized her words had only been a playful jest. He found himself quickly adjusting his original thoughts about her, distracted by her light and challenging demeanour — her countenance currently coming off as somewhat facetious.

"Hello, Miss Hughes." Her lips twitched at such a title, blue eyes reflecting a curious light that he couldn't stop observing. One that blossomed into something else that was as diverting as observing as the woman herself.

_Right. _If he wanted to make a fool of himself, he could carry on in this manner. But, seeing as how Charles Carson was not interested in making a fool of himself, he had to do something else—

"Please, call me Elsie."

_Right. Elsie it is, then._

_._

Elsie Hughes had come across a great many people who incessantly sneered or frowned at the idea of anything involving tattoos. And though she wasn't an artist herself, she freely defended those who worked in the industry — understanding it to be a far more intimate and thoughtful practice than many would believe. It was one of the reasons why she had been originally drawn to Beryl, why they remained such close friends after all these years: they both understood the permanence of tattoos, the amount of consideration that has to go into the beautiful creation. Perhaps not everyone took it as seriously as the two friends did, but that didn't mean it was something for them to make light of.

So, when a man hesitantly barreled into Beryl's shop after the two eager customers, the customers being the Mason family if she wasn't mistaken, the woman knew an unnecessarily defensive air could come about from him. Such an air would create an unappealing atmosphere, one that would permeate and disregard the original meaning of this appointment. Hence, her sticking around to chat instead of slipping out the back and letting her friend work in solitude.

Because if there was one thing Elsie wouldn't be standing for today, it would be letting this beautiful tribute to be marred by distasteful ignorance.

Beryl had told her earlier about the whole set-up: that the father and son wanted to commemorate the memory of the mother who had passed on for some time now. That they wanted to get matching tattoos of a specific drawing as a tribute to the woman. That their family friend, the one who had suggested they go through with it, was also a stickler for tradition and had been reluctant to come by the shop to see father and son go through with it. But that they were still going to go through with it, regardless of anyone's reluctance, because it felt like the right thing to do.

Elsie thought the whole thing was rather sweet, in all honesty. Seeing the family now, she could tell they looked perfectly comfortable with the idea. And as she suspected, it was the friend accompanying them, this 'Charles Carson' that looked to be the only one on edge. She watched as he crept into the space with great trepidation, distantly realizing it wasn't the same dismissive type she'd encountered in the past. There was something about his obvious tentativeness that felt atypical for the situation, though she couldn't quite figure out what was different about him.

In any case, it was all going decently. Sure, the family friend looked like this was one of the last places he wanted to be, but he wasn't being abrasive about being in the shop. He just looked like he was shocked into silence by everything. And in fact, because of that shocked silence, she almost thought there was no reason to hang about. It really looked like Beryl could handle her own with him.

But then, the man looked unable to shake the hand of her dear friend. He didn't look fearful per se, but he did look unnecessarily apprehensive. Albert and William frowned a bit at this, clearly holding this Charles Carson in high regard. And though Beryl was too professional to show any offense, his actions were bordering on tasteless. And they weren't stopping.

That's when she knew she had to speak up.

"Don't worry, Mr. Carson," Elsie kept the tease to a minimum, making sure that she wasn't shocking him even more with her sudden appearance, even though she still needed to point out the obvious fear, "You won't absorb the ink by shaking her hand."

The woman refrained from rolling her eyes as she could feel him gaping at her, no doubt scandalized by her tone. Well, it was not the first time she'd come across a snob who didn't want to interact with tattoo artists and it wouldn't be the last. And, even if he continued to stare at her in disdain — for how could that taken aback stare be anything else? — she would calmly deal with whatever came next.

"Albert, William, Charles, allow me to introduce Elsie Hughes."

Beryl stepped aside to let the three men see who had been speaking out and, astonishingly enough, Elsie felt a little thrown off by Mr. Carson's full attention. What originally looked like outright snobbery from a distance was turning into something different, something she once again couldn't identify. Something that felt kinder than the snooty attitude she'd predicted, something that was dressed up in a perplexed nature she didn't find herself entirely opposed to understanding.

Still, if he continued to stare at her in horror — once again, it was rather unlikely that stare of his was anything else — she would feel obligated to continue pointing out his tactless behaviour. All in all, it mattered very little to her if he was in fact that person who'd encouraged the Mason family to give this a go. If he insisted on being narrow-minded about this experience, a perspective that would ruin the next hour, no doubt, she would hold nothing back.

"Hello, Miss Hughes." She inwardly scoffed in disbelief, having not been called anything like that in years. It felt especially peculiar given the type of place they were standing in; a tattoo parlour did feel a bit too bold for old-fashioned conventionality. "And, my apologies to you, Ms. Patmore. I hope I haven't offended you."

Beryl snorted, shooting Elsie a look that the woman didn't have time to decipher.

"Hardly, Mr. Carson." Conceding to the formality that had been facetiously begun, the tattoo artist turned back to her customers. "Now, then, I've got a stencil of the sketch in the back, if you're ready to look it over."

"We're ready." Albert firmly responded only once he silently checked in with William, the pair look resolved about the matter all things considered. Beryl nodded warmly, turning on her heel to enthusiastically head further into the shop, looking for their stencil. Father and son followed her faithfully, unintentionally leaving their friend behind in their task.

_Though_, Elsie thought with a mental snort, _Maybe that's for the best. Let's just hope the man doesn't take it personally._

"Now, Mr. Carson,"

"Please, call me Charles." He suddenly interrupted, giving her cause to raise an eyebrow at the minor plot twist. He looked to be a man who preferred to be shielded by formalities, something that the use of his surname would undoubtedly give. "In a place like this, 'Mr. Carson' feels a bit pretentious. And why call me 'Mr. Carson' when you've asked to be called Elsie?"

_Well, then. _She had not expected that comment, not one bit. Now openly chuckling at this, agreeing with him without saying a word, Elsie assented to his plea without a second thought.

"I see. I hope you're not too upset by my request." It was more of a quip and less of an apologetic statement, serving to distract him while his friends sorted out the details of the stencil with her friend.

"Hardly." That seemed more blunt than he was used to being, and far more blatant than she'd expected. Once again this Mr. Carson— _Charles_, she faintly reminded herself — managed to surprise her. Not the first time he'd done so, interestingly enough. And this distraction was to the point that his calling her by her given name, undoubtedly in an effort to ask her a question, went completely over her head the first two times.

"Sorry?"

"Elsie," The man repeated, a strange look on his face. Was that disdain or a careful bemusement? Oddly enough, the woman realized she couldn't tell. Odder still, she found she didn't mind either way.

"My apologies — I was with the fairies, it seemed. Now, what were you saying?"

"It doesn't matter now." Charles dismissed, easily shifting gears. "Are you also a tattoo artist?"

"Not quite." Elsie confessed, still managing to follow it up with a wry and beguiling, "Though, I do have tattoos of my own."

Refraining from smirking, the woman watched him take in the news — catching him trying to discreetly look her over in an effort to see any of these tattoos. Unfortunately for him, they were all concealed underneath her sweater and jeans. And, even if she'd ditched the sweater for a blouse or switched into shorts, he'd only spot one or two. The rest, she thought with more than a trace of snarky humour, were a bit more hidden.

"Right," Charles flusteredly repeated, any thoughts of Albert and William's appointment long gone — just as she'd hoped. In fact, he now looked like conversation was leaving him altogether. But then, his blushing face glanced away and caught some of the more ostentatious artwork, remembering where he was and what was happening.

Looked like Elsie needed to conjure up more topics to talk about if she didn't want him barging into the other room and getting in the way of the appointment. Thankfully, she didn't need to work hard to kickstart the conversation again. After all, now that she'd met the man, she had one curiosity she'd been meaning to put to him.

"Charles, I heard you were the one who convinced them to do this. Is that right?"

"Not quite," The man quickly confessed, definitely relieved to change tracks in conversation. "It was William who convinced me. I just told Albert it made perfect sense."

_My, my. _"And does it make perfect sense?" Her questioning turned serious, as she found herself openly observing his reaction. Here was a man who nearly flinched at the sight of a tattoo artist, who looked as comfortable here as a giraffe would in Leicester Square, and _he _thought this made perfect sense?

"It does." He defended his opinion, unwittingly sparking a smile from her with his sharp resolution.

"Why, if I may ask?" Elsie certainly had formed her own opinions on the matter, but still wanted to hear his. And, judging from the fact that the stare he gave her was one of faint bemusement — maybe even trust — it looked like she might just get to hear it.

"Well,"

Charles began only after ascertaining that she was being perfectly authentic in her interest. But, though his manner was slow and methodical, his method of conversation being gradual when it came to this topic, the truth of the matter was that he was committed to giving her his honest opinion.

"I can't begin to imagine what a life with a wife and a child would be like." A pang of understanding struck her at these words, the woman knowing quite well the emotions that had crawled into his words. She recognized the taste of that pensive tonality that slipped into the crevices of his statement, knowing such a tone occasionally resided within herself as well. "But, I'd like to think that if I had such a life, Elsie, I would want to keep it for as long as I could."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note: **This was one that I could see stretching on for quite some time, much like all of the others. Still, that felt as a good a spot as any to call it a day. Hope you've enjoyed this piece and have a nice day!
> 
> **Teaser for** "The One With The Dinosaurs"**:**
> 
> "I freely admit, Dr. Carson, that a breed of the species known as children could be intriguing." His colleague playfully retorts, happy to discuss what she feels is a fairly neutral subject — even if talking about children is unusual for them. "And, your opinion of the species?"
> 
> Charles comes to a stop, gradually letting the question fully strike him before responding. It isn't one he's really given a lot of thought to— well, no, that isn't truly accurate, is it? It's more of the fact that he'd stopped giving thought to that when it had become clear which path his life was taking.
> 
> "Although I could see some potential benefits, I typically find that particular species to be cacophonous, uncivilized, and expensive."
> 
> "It's the last part that particularly bothers you, isn't it?" She knowingly quips.
> 
> But, this is one of the rare moments in which Elsie Hughes is wrong about him. And ordinarily, he would brush her response off into the sand, letting it fade into a dusty silence. How could the truth be of any help in this situation? Why possibly ruin a witty conversation with his honesty?
> 
> Well, because this feels different.
> 
> And because this feels different, he doesn't resist the urge to correct her.


	5. The One With The Dinosaurs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** Another one-shot, another crossover! This is a tribute to _Jurassic Park _as well as an attempt to play around with verb tenses. In any case, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> If anyone hasn't seen _Jurassic Park_, this one-shot isn't really spoilers. Nevertheless, if you're confused by the end of this/never saw the movie, I'll put together a brief explanation in the following author's note.
> 
> **Rating: **K, maybe K+
> 
> **Word Count: **2,521
> 
> **Disclaimer: **Don't own _Downton Abbey _or _Jurassic Park._
> 
> **Warning: **A bit of fluff, a bit of teasing, more Scottish accent than normal, and an exasperating American calling the shots for our leading [slow-burn in process at this point] couple.

"Dr. Hughes, what is your opinion of Larry Grey?" The words are slipping out of his mouth before the man can think them through, the air stilling for him even as his colleague takes the question in stride.

"My opinion of Larry Grey is hardly favourable, Dr. Carson: I did find him pranking one of his fellow classmates earlier this morning," Though, judging from the clipped tone, "prank" is undoubtedly an understatement for the child in question. "And I caught him acting in an unbecoming manner towards Anna and Phyllis several minutes afterwards."

Then that little lecture of his has indeed saved the boy from Nodosaur trauma. Still, Charles couldn't help but wonder if it would have been better to let his dear colleague and friend have her way and petrify the boy with a deserved lecture. "So, your opinion of children as a whole is one that…?"

They have never discussed the matter in all their years of working together. It is simply not done, not normally. There are far too many boundaries typically holding them back from any sort of interaction like this. Theirs is not suppose to be more than platonic companionship, a solid working relationship that allows for archaeological adventures by one another's side, nothing more. To think otherwise is to take their habits and replace them with contemplations that are far from the working parameters of their life together. It would be atypical, an abnormal contemplation that would derail the definition of their relationship.

Yes, well, it seems that nothing is meant to be normal today. For instance, he rarely let himself reach this level of melodrama within his thoughts, let alone give his contemplations to such sentimentality. Even so, he finds himself invested in hearing whatever it is she will offer next in way of conversation.

"I freely admit, Dr. Carson, that a breed of the species known as children could be intriguing." His colleague playfully retorts, happy to discuss what she feels is a fairly neutral subject — even if talking about children is unusual for them. "And, your opinion of the species?"

Charles comes to a stop, gradually letting the question fully strike him before responding. It isn't one he's really given a lot of thought to— well, no, that isn't truly accurate, is it? It's more of the fact that he'd stopped giving thought to that when it had become clear which path his life was taking.

"Although I could see some potential benefits, I typically find that particular species to be cacophonous, uncivilized, and expensive."

"It's the last part that particularly bothers you, isn't it?" She knowingly quips. But, this is one of the rare moments in which Elsie Hughes is wrong about him. And ordinarily, he would brush her response off into the sand, letting it fade into a dusty silence. How could the truth be of any help in this situation? Why possibly ruin a witty conversation and derail a beautiful friendship with his foolishly sentimental honesty?

Well, because this feels different.

And because this feels different, he doesn't resist the urge to correct her.

"Not really. Rather, it's the fact that having children would imply I'm not in the vicinity of—"

The jarring rush of a helicopter cuts off his words, taking their attention as the pair rush back to current priority: covering up their dig. Any disruption from the helicopter could set them back for weeks. And seeing as how it has taken them ages to discover this velociraptor skeleton, there is no way he can possibly allow said discovery to be ruined because of some rich idiot who doesn't understand the unspoken rules of archaeology.

"Shut it down!" Dr. Hughes repeatedly demands as she, much to Charles' horror, runs up to the helicopter. He doesn't care for those contraptions, finding them to be as newfangled as computers and _far _more dangerous. But, she seems safe even now, and quite frankly looks more distracted than anything else as the pilot points in the direction of their little home. And soon he finds himself watching as she stalks back over to the main trailer — his friend quite determined to converse with whoever has interrupted their day. Irritatingly so, he can't join her just yet; he still has to make sure every inch of the dig site is covered. But the second that is completed he will be following her and investigating the transpiration that has interrupted their work today.

Because, unfortunately, there is indeed someone inside their little home. That much is obvious.

Not only that, he also feels certain that there is something to investigate.

_._

It was with a sense of vexation that had Dr. Elsie Hughes striding over to the inside of the trailer, rather irritated by the lack of consideration in this situation. That ire only increased when she discovered a woman dressed sumptuously in white, a woman who was unashamedly rummaging through their fridge and radiating imminent prestige.

"What on earth do ye think ye're doing in here?" Her brogue sharply poked through her words, anger tossing aside her normal manners. "And may I add that we were savin' tha' bottle o' wine!"

This only brought out a pleased grin from the woman as she eagerly declared in an American accent that, "I guarantee you were saving it for today."

_Hardly!_ Elsie was not interested in such inconsiderate behavior nor for such carefree statements. Not when it had nearly ruined what was and still is a very promising dig.

"And just who do you think you are?" The scientist regained some of her manners even as she snapped, the sand from the outside world sliding off her as she tersely walked over to where the American stood, noting that the stranger still clutched their bottle of wine.

"Cora Crawley. And, I'm delighted to finally meet you in person, Dr. Hughes."

_Oh._

Elsie froze, not knowing how to react to her patron standing in the middle of their trailer. Especially when she considered the ire she'd just flung at said patron. Luckily, it looked like Mrs. Crawley didn't give a hoot about the anger, instead proudly declaring that, "I can see that my £50,000 a year has been well spent."

Yes, well, with an unusually loud bang that came with the door rapidly opening, Dr. Carson joined them with more than mere traces of vexation in his voice as he caustically snapped, "And just who was it that so rudely—"

"This is our paleobotanist, Dr. Carson." Elsie sharply interrupted him, quickly placing a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to calm him down as she spoke. "Dr. Carson, this is Mrs. Crawley."

"Mrs. Crawley?" Dr. Carson was appropriately chastised by his own lack of manners the moment "Mrs." had been uttered, having quickly realized that this was the woman who helped to pay for nearly everything before them. He could only hope the American would forgive them both for their outbursts, suddenly feeling profusely ashamed of his behaviour. After all, had it not been for this eccentric woman, he might have had to have lived most of his life working in a factory or some such equivalent. And now that he'd lived this life, this fantastic life working alongside this particularly brilliant woman, he could not ever go back to the other paths that had once been available.

"I am terribly sorry about the dramatic entrance, Dr. Carson, but we're in a hurry." Mrs. Crawley smoothly pivoted around, flashing him a smile. "Will you have a drink? I'll just get a glass or two."

Dr. Hughes noticed bemusedly that her colleague proceeded to try to be of use, probably feeling highly undignified about not being the one who took care of arranging the drinks. But Cora seemed most insistent on managing her way throughout their kitchen, continuing to happily chat as she did so, all smiles and warm tones.

"You know, I must say that I like you. Both of you." Their patron easily fetched the glasses in question as she pleasantly confided that, "I can tell instantly about people. It's a gift that's served me well."

The pair of scientists slowly nodded, still stunned by her unexpected arrival and wondering just what it was that brought the woman here. Gifts or not, they had no explanation for her sudden appearance. Thankfully, Cora only took this as her cue to explain the matter and finally put to rest the mystery.

"My husband and I own an island off the coast of Costa Rica. We've leased it from the government and, during the last five years, I'm pleased to say we've been setting up a biological preserve. Really spectacular — and, as my husband likes to remind me, we spared no expense. Makes the one we've got down in Kenya look like a petting zoo." Cora chuckled a bit, tickled by something within her own remark. "And there's no doubt our attractions will drive kids out of their minds."

"What, precisely, are those?" Elsie glanced over at her colleague at his question, needing to air out some sort of a jest in order to regain her equilibrium. It was only that, and not the fact that said colleague was endearing when incredibly flustered, that had her quipping a tease in response.

"Small versions of adults, Dr. Carson." She said with a playful smile, ignoring his bristling in response as Cora continued.

"And not just kids, everyone." The American began to pour the drinks, comfortable with the multi-tasking before her. "We're going to open next year — that is, if the lawyers don't kill us first. We don't particularly care for lawyers, do you?"

Surprised by this blunt question, the two friends could only respond with neutral equivalents of "We don't really know any."

Mrs. Crawley nodded, taking their responses in and swirling the wine in her hand as she thought it over. And though she'd taken a fair bit of time in responding, her eyes revealed that this was an answer she'd long since rehearsed.

"Well, I'm afraid my husband and I do. And there's a particular pebble in my shoe, one who represents my investors. He says that they insist on outside opinions."

This calmly offered bit of information seemed to be exactly what motivated Cora to come here, which could only imply that those outside opinions she wanted were theirs. But, any good scientist knew better than to assume, even when the conclusion seemed obvious.

"What kind of opinions?" Elsie found herself asking, even though her gut already told her the answer. Though, it looked like she'd asked just the right question, judging from the serene beam coming from the American in question.

"Well, your kind of opinion, Dr. Hughes, not to put too fine a point on it. I mean, let's face it: in your particular fields, you're the top minds. And if my husband and I could just persuade you to sign off on the park, give it a ringing endorsement, maybe even write a winning testimonial, we could get back on schedule."

It seemed so logical when she stated it so nonchalantly, so very logical and so very persuasive. Had there been a contract in front of their faces, signatures would've been placed almost immediately. Still, the pair couldn't help but wonder why _they _were the experts being sought out. Amusement parks never needed the endorsements of people who had spent their lives traipsing around fossils and mucking about in the deserts of time.

"Why would they care what we think?" Dr. Carson confusedly inquired as Elsie asked, "What kind of park is this, exactly?"

"It's right up your alley." Cora confessed with a small grin, handing them both a glass with a relaxed gaze. She knew as well as they that there was enough intrigue in this proposal. Hence, they'd hear her out instead of flat-out refusing. It also helped that she ensured their little operation was smoothly sailing, at least in regards to finances. "Why don't you come down for the weekend? Get an idea of it all."

"And just what is a weekend?" Dr. Carson muttered under his breath, only slightly jesting. The problem was, their work was never-ending — especially now that they had a new discovery to work with. No, Dr. Hughes and her colleague both knew that they'd have to politely reject this offer, even if it came from the woman who supplied them with this wonderful life of theirs.

"If you're asking that question, you need to experience one, Dr. Carson." Elsie couldn't resist a slight snort at this, still not trusting the situation but managing to find humor in that remark. "Besides, I'd love to have an opinion of a paleobotanist as well. And I've got a jet standing by at Choteau with more than enough space for the two of you."

The pair shared a glance at one another at this, minds fixated on the skeleton that laid only a small way away from the trailer. To say yes to this trip, which was going out of their way for what seemed to be a small matter, well, it just didn't seem right to agree to Cora's terms and drop everything. And, much as it'd be nice to spend a weekend with only the other for company, that was not a good enough reason to abandon their latest dig and say yes.

"I am sorry, Mrs. Crawley," Elsie began, "But I'm afraid that isn't possible. We would need our entire team with us, _and _we just dug up a new skeleton—"

"The entire team would also be more than welcome to come to our little island. I can easily have another jet on standby." The pair was still rather hesitant, even with that change in offer. "_And_, of course, I could compensate you by fully funding your dig..."

It was a nice thought to have guaranteed compensation, but they really did have to adamantly refuse, "This is a very unusual time," "The timing truly is,"

"... For the next three years."

Once again, Elsie found herself caught off guard by the day's conversation. First, that brat Larry Grey and his atrocious behavior, then Charles' when he not only scared Grey but also brought up children only minutes later, and now Cora Crawley's more-than-generous offer. It was far more overwhelming than their latest discovery, to say the least.

"What do you think?"

It was in that moment that, after sharing another look with her colleague, she knew what their answer would be. Three years of funding was incredibly difficult to come by, even for people who'd been working in the field as long as they had. And the amount of work they could get done in that timespan would be simply astonishing, to be quite honest. So, yes, this little weekend would only ensure that they could keep going in this little dream of theirs, this shared passion for fossils and the past.

"In that case, Mrs. Crawley, our only question is this," The American quietly listened with bated breath, eagerly waiting to hear the latest inquiry. "Where's the plane?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note: **Ah, yes, the old "We're the best of colleagues, we've just happened to be working together for years and it's all totally platonic even if we both probably want it to be something else" meets _Jurassic Park._
> 
> Also, did anyone catch the little references to series 1 and 5? I've been making an effort to reference a certain conversation from Series 1 every one-shot, but this was the first time I've intentionally made a reference to that specific moment in Series 5 (as well as a certain Dowager line from Series 1).
> 
> In any case, as per my earlier promise in the previous author's note:
> 
> **For those who haven't seen _Jurassic Park_,** picture an island designed to host dinosaurs as an amusement park. The only problem is, said park needs an endorsement from the scientists who are experts in the field. Hence, the start of _Jurassic Park_.
> 
> And, now, may I present a teaser for another crossover that is definitely a different path for our two main characters?
> 
> **Teaser for **"The One With The Vigilantism"**:**
> 
> This was supposed to be a little holiday — a brief get-away from England to enjoy some time in the States. _Enjoy yourself for once in your life, _Beryl had practically commanded when she dropped him off at the airport. _Please, Mr. Carson, just go have fun, _Cora, his boss, had said as she was shoo-ing him out of the office for the final time.
> 
> And for the first day or two, Charles Carson had tried to do just that: enjoy himself. Granted, that was hard to do in a ghastly city like New York, where peace and quiet seemed to be nowhere in sight, but he was trying. Because, even with all the grating noises, the awful pollution and the terribly apparent lack of personal space, he was trying to take in a little of the "Big Apple".
> 
> That all ended when he walked into a bank, having wanted to stock up a little on money, and unwittingly became a part of a robbery.


	6. The One With The Vigilantism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note: **Another stand-alone fusion with a fandom, though you do not need to be of a fan of _Person of Interest_ in order to know the details - however, it does help.
> 
> _In short,_ picture an Orwellian-like society where everyone in the States (and the world) is being surveilled. And this is surveillance up to a point where the government can track down "relevant" targets that will cause terrible things to happen to the country _and _a group of vigilantes can predict the "irrelevant" crimes of the everyday people. Because, in all reality, everyone is in fact relevant in the world. And, therefore, it's important to save all the lives possible.
> 
> If that at all sounds interesting, definitely give the show a watch - it's on Netflix if that helps. Either way, my little description does not do it justice. Hopefully this next one-shot does.
> 
> And, to any "Once Upon A September" POI fans that wander across this, please note that I have plans to finish that soon. This just demanded to be written first.
> 
> **Rating: **T
> 
> **Word Count: **5,907
> 
> **Disclaimer: **I do not own _Downton Abbey _or _Person of Interest_. Also, I do rather enjoy New York City - having been there on many occasions. Please note that Mr. Carson's opinions most certainly do not reflect mine.
> 
> **Warning: **There'll be mentioning of violence and crimes as well as light angst. Nothing more than guns and robberies, violence-wise, but still intense enough it warrants a warning.
> 
> Aka, _**this is going to be a unique one-shot in comparison to the others.**_

This was supposed to be a little holiday — a brief get-away from England to enjoy some time in the States. _Enjoy yourself for once in your life, _Beryl had practically commanded when she dropped him off at the airport. _Please, Mr. Carson, just go have fun, _Cora, his boss, had said as she was shoo-ing him out of the office for the final time.

And for the first day or two, Charles Carson had tried to do just that: enjoy himself. Granted, that was hard to do in a ghastly city like New York, where peace and quiet seemed to be nowhere in sight, but he was trying. Because, even with all the grating noises, the awful pollution and the terribly apparent lack of personal space, he was trying to take in a little of the "Big Apple".

That all ended when he walked into a bank, having wanted to stock up a little on money, and unwittingly became a part of a robbery.

He doesn't even have time to sarcastically wonder why it has to be the one time he's at the bank that there's a robbery. He has been patiently standing in the queue, eager to pick up a little more cash — cash is easier to work with than cards, though he dearly missed those blessed pound notes — and feeling content to quietly wait for his turn.

That's when several masked persons charge into the bank, bringing guns and chaos with them. After that, it is several flurries of petrified movement combined with piercing screams from all angles. And, truly, with the level of terror now suffocating the room, all rationality is haphazardly flung out the window and abandoned for instinctual fear.

"Mr. Reese, I might be a little delayed." Having been hopelessly surrounded by jarring variations of the American accent for the last few days, Charles can't help but feverishly pick up on the Scottish murmur coming from his left. But, the woman in question doesn't seem to be holding any sort of phone. Strangely enough, she looks like she's talking to herself. "Bank robbery."

Charles continues to worriedly study her, absolutely confused as to why this woman does not seem to be intimidated by the cacophony of havoc that surrounded them. The fact that she looks only faintly petrified struck him as inappropriately bizarre. Furthermore, just who is she talking to so calmly?

Well, whatever is going on in her life, Charles isn't the only one who noticed the bizarre behaviour.

"You!" The main robber of the group jabbed his gun in the direction of the woman, "Who're you talking to?"

She's the very picture of innocent confusion, her blue eyes widening as bewilderment hastily scrawls itself all over her demeanor. With a lip being bitten clearly out of habit and a sudden stillness akin to a statue, there is no possible way she isn't scared out of her wits like everyone else.

"I've no idea what you're talking about." The tremor of fear in her voice chucks out any idea that she's secretly confident about all this; now the woman seems to be as terrified over the matter as any other sane person would be. She even hesitantly lifts trembling hands to reveal that she's not holding on to any mobile device.

"English, eh?" Charles bristles at this assumption, not liking the tone of the robber still approaching the woman.

"Scottish, actually," All heads and weapons turn towards the Englishman, prompting him to realize he has been the one to speak out in defense of that stupid assumption. And for a moment, even with all the fear now rapidly flooding his veins, he swears he sees something odd flicker in her eyes. Something distracting and something different enough to make him stare in confusion. But, then a gun comes back into focus and all thought deserts him once again.

"Think ya're clever, do ya?"

"He's just scared," The woman quickly speaks up again and rapidly attracts the robbers' attention once more — though, with their heads all snapping back in her direction, she now looks as if she's regretted speaking. "We all are."

There's something in that statement that doesn't sound right. But, his heart is racing and his desire to shield this stranger from any danger is expanding by the second. He doesn't fancy himself courageous enough to jump in front of a bullet, but he also does not want any harm to come to this woman — to any of them, honestly. None of these people deserved to be shot, not in his opinion.

"I bet you are." Comes the snide, coarse remark. As though this is a casual encounter on the street, not a heinous crime in the making. Its arrogance angers Charles to the point where he aches to do something to help. But his hands unwillingly remain frozen at his sides — stilled by an unnerving adrenaline rush. One that demands he stop moving and shut up in order to survive.

The stranger bites her lip again at the petty remark, and something else flashes in her expression, ire at the injustice occurring, no doubt. Once again, he can't really catch whatever it is careening through her mind, but he knows he wants to do something to shield her from it all.

"Why are you doing this?"

Charles really wants her to stop speaking, immensely disliking the fact that the woman's making herself a clear distraction to the robbers. If she could just stay quiet, then she won't be in their line of sight and then she won't possibly get injured. And then he won't witness the only familiar accent cry out and he won't have to—

"Shut up!" The closest one to the woman yells, nearly screams actually, bringing his gun back in her direction. She flinches, alarm making a swift reappearance in her eyes and silencing any further protests of hers. _Thank God, _Charles can't help but think, relieved that she will not be endangering herself any more, the gun's line of fire now moving elsewhere. He doesn't care for the fact that she has to be quiet, but he is of the firm opinion that remaining quiet is the only way to ensure she remains alive.

"Hey, boss!" _There's more of them? _Charles had thought four robbers were enough — but apparently there's a fifth, judging from the new voice. "Caught someone trying to break into the back."

With that eloquent introduction, the Englishman can make out the sound of someone being shoved into the room. But he doesn't dare to interfere or look to see what's happening, only a faint sense of horror rising at the thought of another victim being dragged into this.

"Fellas," The calm American accent unwittingly swings Charles' attention toward the back area of the room where a robber holds a tall man in a suit by gunpoint. Why this stranger is eerily tranquil in the face of so many firearms, he doesn't know. This could all very well be a normal occurrence for Americans — it wouldn't surprise him by this point. "We don't have to do this. I'm just looking for my boss."

_"We don't have to do this"? _Better yet, _"I'm just looking for my boss?" _Truly, are Americans used to robberies? Do they occur at least six times a week in this country? Or is this a specialty of New York — having the ability to desensitize people when it comes to criminal activity, to the point where they don't even care about impending violence?

"Buddy," The robber closest to a quivering hostage, with a voice that clearly coats itself in swagger, loudly begins to retort. "Ya don't got any friends here. Now, ya gonna shut up and move or are we gonna have ta show just why ya're gonna die alone?"

Had Charles not been scared out of his wits, he would have been incredibly confused and vexed by the rhetorical question. It definitely seems like something out of a show on the telly — sounding as cheesy as an action film from the 1980s. As it happens though, he is scared out of his wits. That means he has no capacity for sardonic retorts, no current capability for contemplations, and certainly no desire for any sort of action — other than the actions that involve staying absolutely silent and firmly out of sight.

In any case, even had the Englishman been able to say anything, it would have either resulted in igniting more tension or in the man possibly getting shot. So, much as he wants to help this poor fellow who has stumbled into this disconcerting chaos, he knows he can't. And, speaking of this man in a suit, the gentleman in question remains calm at the robber's rhetorical question. For a second, his face radiates a sense of frustration — much like a parent disappointed with the decision their child has made. Then the man's countenance reflects a colder emotion, another feeling Charles can't quite pinpoint.

"You got something you want to say?" The robber holding a gun to the American's back jostles his captive, noticing the atypical attitude. The well-dressed man in question sighs with what sounds like faint regret, shaking his head a little and looking as though he wants to chuckle at this behavior. "Something funny?"

"If you're going to threaten someone," It's a rasp in comparison to the man's earlier tone, a dark and silky whisper that promises immense pain. "You need to remember to take off the safety."

"Huh?"

But it's too late.

Too fast for Charles's eyes to see, the man that had been held hostage is now attacking the robber closest to him — swiftly striking him with a punch that knocks the wind out of the culprit. The supposed hostage then promptly snatches the gun out of the wheezing criminal's hand, takes the safety off, briskly aims the gun at the other robbers, and methodically shoots each one in the kneecaps — purposefully indifferent to the renewed screams that flare up at the sound.

The perpetrators plummet without pause, rivulets of colorful words oozing out of their voices as they drop onto the floor — the blood quickly inundating the cheap carpet with a gaudy river of scarlet pain. Completely unaware of the now fleeing bystanders, Charles finds himself horribly transfixed by the matter, watching the red liquid sink further and further into the—

A hand touches Charles' shoulder, causing him to gasp as he whips his gaze back to the woman — the one who is now concernedly watching him.

"Do you not think this is the best time to leave?" Even with trembles of shock tracing over her collected tone, she still manages to get the marbles out, so to speak. He nods without a second thought, wanting to escape the situation as soon as humanly possible. He doesn't need to know if the police are nearby and are ready to take witness reports, he doesn't have to see what has happened to that intimidating well-dressed American in the suit, he just wants to leave this bank and get as far away from New York City as possible.

"Come on, let's go."

But, he can't move — still glued to his spot by terror alone.

Something that she notices.

"Come on," The woman — whose name he _still_ doesn't know — repeats, before giving up on trying to coax him into leaving. Instead, she settles for placing one hand back on his shoulder and taking his other hand, firmly starting to guide him out of the bank. And though he's now being maneuvered down a new path without any official consent, Charles finds himself accepting these actions. He also finds himself sparing a glance in the direction of that strange American who has inadvertently saved them all.

However, the man in the suit is long gone.

As they reach the outside world, the shrill sounds of sirens in the distance coldly approach. Putrescent smells of blood cling onto them, apathetically mixing into the fetid so-called delights that come with city life — further overpowering his already shocked conscious. "Something tells me we're not going to be any help to them," She says and he finds himself still too petrified to offer any sort of argument. In fact, any rational thought left him the moment the attempted robbery had begun.

"You're injured," Charles thoughtlessly points out, having just noticed her continuous limp. She dismisses the concern without hesitation, quickly explaining that it's only an old injury that occasionally acts up, guiding him into losing himself with her in the crowd.

Obtaining anonymity seems to be something the woman's good at, judging from how effortlessly she dives into the hordes of strangers — strangers that litter the streets with unending complaints about the attempted robbery as well as mindless conversation as to what exactly happened. It's much too much for the Yorkshire man, the visitor who was told to temporarily escape England and find something different. And he finds he can't take much more of it.

"I know a park nearby that we can walk to, how does that sound?" The woman interrupts his overwhelming thoughts, the familiar accent soothing Charles' overworked nerves to the point where he finds himself quietly agreeing once again. "I think the fresh air will help."

He blankly nods at this, needing a hint of greenery and being desperate enough not to question the situation. He can only hope this was a legitimate park and not some sort of industrial wreckage in disguise.

It is only once they are out of the social swarm that infests cities that he finds he can actually breathe.

"Never again am I _ever_ taking a holiday in New York," Charles disdainfully murmurs to himself after a few minutes, causing her to laugh at the unexpected statement. It's an amused sound, a chuckle that sparks a bit of life back into him — even though he continues to detachedly exist in a state of absolute shock.

"It's not always like this. Last week, there was only six bomb threats and fourteen robberies in the neighborhood," She dryly quips, prompting him to force an uneasy chortle. But, the adrenaline that has encompassed the morning — combined with surreality of the situation — has him soon finding a real chuckle on the way.

When they finally reach the park, more comforting feelings arise within him. Having been surrounded by a concrete forest for the last few days — with skyscrapers and apartment complexes far too industrious for his taste — a soothing patch of unassuming green space complete with trees and seating areas is indescribably wonderful.

"There now," The woman comments as they settle on one of the benches. "That's much better, isn't it?"

Charles can only nod again, still processing everything that has happened in the last half hour. She nods herself, understanding his plight and keeping a comforting hand on his shoulder as she releases his hand from her grasp.

"I suppose you don't often encounter these sorts of things back home?"

The man shakes his head, unlikely to properly leave this stunned state of existence anytime soon.

"I think our last robbery was about seven years ago, maybe a decade." Her eyes widen, a disbelieving smile playing with her lips.

"Sounds heavenly." In comparison to his holiday so far, it really is. Sure, they have their struggles in the Yorkshire county — but nothing quite like this. For that matter, the more he thinks about home, the more he's reminded of how out-of-place this all is. It isn't just the culture shock that comes with visiting an unfamiliar location — he'd been warned about that by Robert when he'd informed the man of his plans. Rather, there's an entirely different atmosphere in this part of the world. And, apart from the woman before him, Charles feels that he isn't a fan of any of it.

"I do hope we haven't scared you away from staying for the rest of your holiday." She offhandedly states, now looking at the greenery that surrounds them.

"You couldn't possibly." He speaks without thinking for the second time that day, but it's true. She hasn't scared him in the slightest. Confused him, yes. Caused him to feel strange in ways he'd never before experienced, absolutely.

But, scared him?

Somehow, Charles doesn't think she could ever do that.

The woman gives a faint smile at this, somehow hearing his thoughts even as blue depths shift into a somber ice. And though it feels like there's something foreboding pulling her countenance into this taciturn plateau of expression, he can still spot a sense of something warm within her gaze.

"I'm glad."

It's a quiet confession, one that he knows came from the heart.

He finds it's the one treasure of the day, something that the bank's cash couldn't possibly compete with.

They continue to sit in silence, her hand still resting on his shoulder even as they look off into the park. With the birds twittering nearby and the sounds of the cars zooming off in the distance, it's almost as though the last hour or so hasn't occurred. And if he closes his eyes, he can pretend they're back in a part of the Yorkshire county. He can imagine that this morning was a nightmare. That all is well, that they can catch their breath and take this moment for themselves because time is standing still just for them.

But, whether a robbery occurs or not, the world keeps spinning.

An old-fashioned telephone booth rings in the distance, drawing the woman's attention towards it for a moment before she's looking up — staring at something that he can't see.

"Is everything alright?"

"Unfortunately," She begins, with a tone that informs him whatever's coming next will indeed be unfortunate. "I am late for work."

Charles is startled by this and the fact that he's forgotten not everyone is on holiday. Not only that, he's thrown off by the fact that they have to officially part ways already. Which is perturbing, considering he'd just met this woman and he normally didn't have any sense of attachment to strangers. Though, maybe it's because of the robbery that's formed these feelings—

_Charlie, you haven't said anything, _The critical tone of a former friend comes to mind, spurring him to take verbal action.

"Oh, I am so sorry—"

"What are you sorry for?" She dryly asks, bemusedly letting go of his shoulder and choosing to stand up instead. "I'm the one who forgot."

"Yes, well," Charles searches around for the right words — feeling inexplicably responsible for her tardiness. "I feel somewhat responsible."

"Did you ask those people to rob that bank?"

"What?" The Englishman can't have heard her correctly, not daring to believe she'd ask such a question.

"Did you ask those people to rob that bank?" The woman repeats, confirming that that is indeed the question she has for him.

"Certainly not!" He can't help the defensiveness that springs to life, disconcerted by such a question.

"Then how is any of this possibly your fault?"

Charles remains quiet, his silence an attempt to concede her point even though he does crave to take the blame. Blame takes responsibility, has a purpose to it. Blame would not support the belief that they just happen to be terribly unlucky this morning.

But, for today, blame is irrelevant.

And it's only now that he's beginning to truly understand that.

After another few seconds of silence, a faint beam of something else appears in her eyes. Quite possibly amused by his latest statement and her own thoughts, the woman's lips quirk upward for a second or two — drawing out that faint smile he wants to see more often.

"I do hope you stay for a few more days," She speaks with that lilt that he finds himself craving to hear more of, the one that has him want to agree to anything she asks regardless of how silly or ridiculous the rationale is. Like, leaving the scene of a crime and refraining from talking to the incoming police as they do so. Or, continuing to share in the presence of a stranger at a park when he ought to be retreating from the world and resting in his hotel room.

"I think I will. Are you staying in the area?" It's a bold question, but he's just experienced his first robbery and audacity seems to accompany these sorts of events. She takes a moment before responding, an almost mechanical response falling from her lips as her eyes briefly look away.

"I'm afraid I'm not from the area."

In that moment, he doesn't realize that she hasn't really answered his question. All he hears is an unexpected disappointment, a trace of weariness that shouldn't entrench the air so heavily. That, and the sound of loneliness, one that typically accompanies those that walk solely throughout the shadows of the world. He doesn't understand why these qualities overtake her voice, doesn't understand why he can hear them so clearly, but he hears it all the same.

And those qualities, in turn, produce something similarly in him. He will probably never have an answer for why she feels this way, but he can somewhat empathize and even vaguely understand.

"Oh." Definitely not his most eloquent statement. But, the woman nods again at the phrase, thankful he's not pressing the matter, quietly beginning to take her leave.

But Charles can't leave it at that.

"This may be an odd request by this point," Stumbling through his words and hastily swiping aside the fear of rejection, "But, what's your name?"

He can feel her smile once again at this uncharacteristically impulsive question. And though she already has her back to him, the woman does swivel back around to answer.

"Elsie." Another pause, this one more contemplative as they find themselves holding one another's gaze. He can't help but notice it's a beautiful name, one that feels rather fitting for her. "And, yours?"

He forgets to speak for a few seconds, still focusing on appreciating the woman before him — her name, her inquisitive eyes, the fact that she quite literally pulled him out of the bank when she didn't need to. But, when that familiar playfulness takes over her gaze once more, he remembers that he still hasn't answered her question.

"Charles."

It's a bemused nod this time, one that thoughtfully drinks in his name as though it were a vintage wine to be sampled instead of a fairly average drink. She even repeats it softly to herself, seeming to be just as forgetful of everything else as he currently is. "It suits you."

"Just as Elsie suits you." A tinge of something appears on her cheeks as she bites her bottom lip, the woman's gaze dipping toward the floor for a moment as she thanks him for the compliment.

Another distant telephone booth rings again. Somehow more insistent than before, the jarring noise snatches their focus away though he's still not sure why. Worst still, with that repetitive sound, he sees all those little hints of life vanish. Observes mirth-filled blue eyes shift back into a bemused light, the smile fading into a reclusively thin line.

"Take care, Charles," She politely says in lieu of goodbye — not seeming the type to drag out such an occasion.

"You as well, Elsie." He wants to continue, but has nothing useful to contribute.

And with that, she turns on her heel and continues down the path.

Now, normally, the man would sink back into his bench, count his blessings that he got out alive, and contemplate how to find the nearest police station to add his own witness report into the batch. However, this Elsie brought with her very clear traces of mystery. And, though his heart is only just slowing down from the intensity of the morning, he finds himself drawn to wanting to find out more about this fascinating woman.

So, once Elsie is nearing some sort of tunnel in the park, a spot where she won't be able to see his bench from, Charles gradually brings himself to his feet. And with a purpose he's never before felt, he determinedly trails after her. Making sure to maintain a good distance — he doesn't want her thinking she's being stalked and he honestly doesn't want to feel as though he is stalking her — Charles trails after the path she's taken. And whilst he does so, the man reflects on what has just happened.

There is probably no mystery to her character, no reason to follow this woman after what has been a rather traumatic morning. Still, there's something fascinating about her interactions, something enigmatic about the way she has handled everything. It has him feel as though there's more to her story. And though he doesn't normally make a habit of playing detective, it's distraction that let's him avoid processing what had happened this morning. He will provide his own witness report later, but he does not have the capability now. And he certainly craves some sort of harmless distraction that'll help him breathe a little before braving the nearest police station. Consequently, this is what he wants to do for at least the next ten minutes.

Though, so far, the most exciting thing she looks like she's about to do is walk through that tunnel and head towards the exit of the park. Which is probably enough adventure for him by this point, but still.

Now, the tunnel is fairly empty, being an isolated spot that provides not only shade from the piercing sun but also a chance to hide. Perhaps at night it'll appear more sinister. But in this moment, it is merely a perfectly serviceable bridge that they're both going to walk through — with Elsie still being a fair distance ahead of him.

All in all, everything is as perfectly normal as it could be, given the circumstances.

Or, at least, it should have been.

However, much to his surprise, when she emerges from the tunnel she isn't alone. The coolly deranged American from earlier — the well-dressed one who had been searching for his friend and wound up being a hostage at the bank — somehow materializes besides her, causing Charles's heart to jolt once again as he tries to understand what just happened.

_What's he doing here? And how did he know where she was? And just what is going on?_

"You're late," All previous emotion disappears, only fierce exasperation clipping her voice at his reappearance. Charles finds himself drinking in another chilling rush at the change in sound — now astonished for a second time that day. "And you know I don't care for guns _or _being tracked, Mr. Reese."

_Mr. Reese, _Charles thinks wildly to himself — knowing that he's heard that name somewhere before. But, his memory is failing him in this instance, much as he wishes to dredge up the recollection. Yet, if he wants to hear this conversation, he can't focus on something he can't recall.

"Sorry, Burns." Elsie doesn't seem to roll her eyes at the unapologetic tone, though it looks like she wants to. She simply gives him a look that is far too cold to be considered a mere stare but far too polite to be categorized as a glare. "I don't like guns, either. But, if guns are gonna be involved, I'd rather be the one who uses them."

The woman rightfully scoffs, looking to be fully aware that he didn't mention anything about tracking her. Still, for whatever reason, she continues to follow him through the park's path. Carrying on in wary silence, they weave through the rest of the shady pavement until it leads to a rather grimy side street — a spot in the city Charles never wants to trail down alone. But, instead of detouring away from it like most of society would have, the pair seem faintly pleased by this shadowy path that lays before them and proceed to trudge on.

The path they're now taking can't be considered an alley — not many of those, if any, exist in the city. But, there's still enough of a claustrophobic air melding with the more pungent smells of urban life that convinces Charles this is the closest equivalent to an alley they are going to get. And he, much to his own surprise, feels intrigued enough to keep following them. Now that this Mr. Reese looks as though he knows Elsie personally, Charles finds himself brimming with further questions, gaining a desperate confusion within him that demands to understand what has been transpiring today.

"Before you ask, we do have another Number." She informs the man, the brisk walk and frosty demeanour giving Charles the barest hint of her prior injury — the old one that has been severe enough to apparently permanently handicap the woman.

"_Number"?_

"Oh?" Reese follows her, silently treading the path alongside her.

Charles can't help it by this point. Against his instinct, against the desire to walk away and leave this all alone, this conversation seems too captivating to ignore. As a result, he finds himself ducking out of sight but still following them — too far away to be noticed, but close enough for him to eavesdrop.

"His name's Harold." She continues to explain. "And something tells me he's going to be the victim in whatever's coming next."

"Personal acquaintance of yours, Burns?" The raspy inquisition echoes down the pavement, barely reaching Charles's strained ears.

"We went to school together." She reveals, after thinking the matter over a moment. "Which means, Mr. Reese, that I can't enter the field this time."

"Wouldn't let you, either way," He darkly mutters. "Not until you learn some more basic self-defense."

"Very funny." The pair reaches the end of the pavement, the side street giving way to the typical bustling avenues and roads of New York City. And their conversation remains uninterrupted by it all as they turn the corner and enter the crowded street.

Only once the pair turns the corner does Charles pick up the pace and hurriedly trek through the grime — wanting answers for what he just saw. Just what is a 'Number'? And why did she pretend to be so helpless when there's clearly more to the story? And how those two know each other? And just what is Elsie involved in? Is Elsie even her real name?

The moment he turns the corner he immediately scans the streets for any sign of the two. Now that there's this mystery before him — something that Charles never normally cares for — he can't help but want to find out everything about it.

He straightens up in an effort to look over the heads of the strangers flocking the pavement, trying to focus on catching any signs of someone limping in the crowd though he's unsure of which way they will go next. He even blocks pedestrians on the pavement — knowing full well that blocking others is not the way to politely travel through a foreign city — and attempts to get another good glimpse into the crowd for any clues.

But, much to his surprise, the mysterious pair is long gone — having long since vanished into the unending throngs of people. The man gives this fruitless search an additional thirty seconds of his time, just to confirm they've really disappeared, but there truly is no sign of them anymore.

"Well, then." Charles murmurs to himself, observing the chatters and ceaseless movements for a few more moments. "I suppose that's that."

But, even though the pair has long since disappeared from sight, the enigma will always exist for him. The mystery of these 'Numbers', of what he witnessed, and just who Elsie truly is will always reside somewhere in his mind, whether he likes it or not...

_._

They'd known that man had been following them from the start.

Reese had waited until they'd lost themselves in the streets before he brought it up.

"Another friend, Burns?"

She shook her head, knowing exactly to whom he was referring to.

"He was at the bank today." The vigilante helpfully supplied, knowing she was well aware of that fact.

"He's only an innocent bystander, Mr. Reese." There was something different in her voice this time, a trace of wistfulness he'd never heard before. Something that informed him that the woman was being honest, but that there was something else on her mind.

That unintentional wistfulness was gone in a heartbeat.

"Now, I didn't hire you to interact with bystanders, Mr. Reese. I hired you to save people the government believe to be 'irrelevant'." Within seconds, she was back to the curt tone that spoke only of business. The one that walled up any hints of her personal contemplations and locked away any clues to her past. Still, he now had another window of opportunity, another chance to ask his boss more questions about their line of work. Glean another hint of just what this job truly offered, possibly understand what her personal motivations were behind it.

"You ever gonna tell me just how you're getting these Numbers, Burns?" John kept his eyes focused on the world in front of them, always ready to make sure danger didn't slip out of the shadows and into the world.

"Do you not think it'd be wiser to stop asking and simply wait to be told when the time is right?" Elsie Hughes — a reclusive billionaire who currently went by the name of Elisabeth Burns — remarked rhetorically, feigning amusement as she continued to scan the crowd for any hint of trouble.

She should've known rhetorical questions weren't going to phase someone like John Reese.

"I don't think the time's ever going to be right for an explanation."

The woman thinly smiled a second time that day, another etching of bemused agreement in the stony look. It only prompted her employee to voice one last comment on the subject, take one last shot at this swiftly withdrawing target.

"You'll have to trust someone someday, Burns." The employee continued, reminding his boss earnestly even as his eyes didn't agree with the sentiment. "All of this won't work otherwise."

The recluse gave an empty chuckle at this, so very tired of the concept of trust. Ever since the ferry, ever since the explosion and ever since the Numbers first started coming, she found the general ideology behind trust to be… irrelevant. Her chosen path, one that she'd been shoved onto more than a decade ago, was filled with many things. Systems of both a social and technological, chucking aside a preference of tradition for survival. But, sentiment had never crossed her path in this life.

"If I ever do, I'm sure you'll be the first to know."

However, as the pair faded into the crowd once more — disappearing into the millions of voices, slipping into the billions of actions that were apparently deemed unimportant to the grand scheme of the American government — both individuals knew that that day of trust would never come. There lay an innate feeling, an instinctive recognition that trust most likely could never and would never make a real appearance in their line of work.

At least, not for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note **Interesting food for thought, n'est-ce pas? As a friend of mine would say, we do love a good unrequited love story that involves _Person of Interest_. And, if I ever continued it, I wouldn't guarantee it remained unrequited ;) For a certain Scotswoman, a particular Englishman, or a specific Man in a Suit :)
> 
> In any case, now for a hint of next week's piece! This time, no vigilantes in sight, I promise! Definitely more of our regular programming, that's for sure.
> 
> **Teaser for** "The One With The Keys"**:**
> 
> "Phyllis Baxter, I presume?" She was the only woman in the entire pub sitting by herself, tucked away in a corner and mostly hidden behind a menu. And though she'd apparently forgotten the rose that was supposed to signal to him that she was his date for the evening, he hardly needed the flower to deduce she was waiting for him.
> 
> "Actually, I prefer Alice Neal." Charles froze, not sure as how to proceed from here, watching her as she gently set down the menu and gave a curious look in his direction. "You wouldn't happen to prefer Joseph Moseley, would you?"


	7. The One With The Keys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note: **Don't ask me why, but Charles' perspective has stolen most of the focus for this one (and for the series in general). It's just so fun to write from that very rigid viewpoint, and then surprise the heck out of said viewpoint.
> 
> On a different note, I'm pleased to say this is the longest piece of the collection, just barely passing over the word-limit of the previous one-shot.
> 
> **Rating: **K+
> 
> **Word Count: **5,662
> 
> **Warning:** Synchronicity and cavity-inducing fluff, a shout-out to one other favorite DA pairing, and not-so-subtle matchmaking up ahead.

"Remind again as to why I am humoring you with this charade?" Charles Carson nearly growled as he was unceremoniously shoved out of the car.

"Because we're worried about you, Charlie!" His friend lightly reminded him for the fifth time that evening as she put more effort into getting him onto the pavement. "And we want you to be happy!"

"And because you can't act when you're not in love." Their current chauffeur snarked from the driver's seat. "Have fun!"

Without another word, the man found himself on the pavement with his only so-called friends now gone with the wind. Abandoned to fend for himself in a matter he wasn't given any choice over. In other words, the thespian had just been theatrically ditched to awkwardly interact with society. And, it was no understatement to say that he had absolutely no clue as how to successfully do so.

Let it be known that Charles Carson was not having the best of times.

It seemed, to contradict the words of Dickens, he was only having the worst of times.

It was one of those moments in which the man immensely questioned his life, his choices, and why on earth he allowed those two indecorous individuals to claim the spot of his "best mates". Truly, considering his personality, it almost felt impossible that he was hanging out with two such characters. "Brazenly audacious" and "fiercely independent" were not words ever used to describe him. Nor did "incredibly wicked sense of humour" or "outright rebellious" apply to his nature.

But those terms fit his friends practically perfectly.

And how did this trio form? One could only suppose that the connection between these three individual laid within their unending support for one another — as illogical as it may seem. Or, perhaps, it resided in the strong ties that only decades of friendship could form. Finding each other in the realm of theatre and improvisation ages ago, many memories had melded into their bonds ever since. And continuing to remember that there were wonderful people in the performance industry, people who could act ridiculously on the stage and still be surprisingly down to earth behind closed doors, had reinforced the understanding that the three of them would be willingly stuck together for decades to come.

Well, at least, that's what would normally be implied with such thoughts, this concept of unbreakable ties between friends.

_Right_. In recent weeks, Charles had half a mind to break those decades old ties without hesitation.

Lately, his well-meaning friends were turning to setting him up on blind dates or, worse still, trying to fix him up with people they'd worked with on the stage over the years. And if it wasn't these tangible traps of socialization, it was vehement protestations about his love life — or lack, thereof — and explanations that if he just found love he'd be able to take his craft much further.

Still, he wasn't really upset with them. Or, at least, he wasn't upset with them to the point where he seriously wanted to let those relationships go. Charles was undoubtedly irritated that they insisted on this latest fixation, this idea that he couldn't perform if he was lonely. Quite frankly, he didn't think he needed a romantic interest in order to be happy: he had gone for years without romance and has been undoubtedly successful even if he wasn't necessarily "famous". In any case, he certainly didn't want some random woman or old flame to be thrown at him on a weekly basis — it wasn't fair to anyone.

But, regardless of what he wanted, he'd already been deposited at the entrance of some nondescript pub with the explicit command to pretty please enjoy himself for one night. And all of this was supposedly occurring in the name of friendship and love — as though he didn't have enough of that from them already.

"Yes, well, if either of you think I approve," Charles muttered to himself, as though he were still trapped in the car. "You'd be quite mistaken."

He could already hear their responses:

"_Approval's got nothing to do with this, Charlie, boy!" "Charlie, go have a little fun for once, alright?"_

Arguments aside, it was too late now. They'd already driven him off, leaving him to this week's ill-advised pub. And knowing his dear friends as well as he did, Charles had long since surmised that the only thing that would bring them back would be a desire to make sure that he hadn't run away to his flat. There'd be no rescuing from them, not that he really needed it.

Yes, well, now seemed as appropriate a time as any to examine this establishment. The man observed a fair crowd of people inside, though the chatter within the pub was quiet enough he didn't think it was going to be overwhelming. It seemed clean enough, and a step up from the dive-bars Charlie Grigg loved to frequent. _That'd be her influence, _he thought to himself as he glanced up — taking sight of the name gleaming in gold letters before him and confirming Grigg didn't pick this week's spot:

_The Keys._

"Very funny, Elsie."

This definitely had the Elsie Hughes' name written all over it — the not-so-subtle hint reeking of her hopeful romantic nature.

Yes, well, needless to say, Charles hardly felt the key to his love life resided in some pub.

_._

"Phyllis Baxter, I presume?" She was the only woman in the entire pub sitting by herself, tucked away in a corner and mostly hidden behind a menu. And though she'd apparently forgotten the rose that was supposed to signal to him that she was his date for the evening, he hardly needed the flower to deduce she was waiting for him.

"Actually, I prefer Alice Neal." Charles froze, not sure as how to proceed from here, watching her as she gently set down the menu and gave a curious look in his direction. "You wouldn't happen to prefer Joseph Moseley, would you?"

With that dryly spoken statement, he found himself stilling even further. It couldn't possibly be that he was mistaken, though it did look like that was the case. For that matter, it also couldn't possibly be that she was in a similar set-up — having been trapped into going on some sort of social outing by an irritatingly well-meaning friend?

"I take you have also been coerced into socialization this evening?" He regretted the words as soon as he'd gotten them out, having forgotten that she might be inclined to go on dates with strangers. That he might have bungled his chance for a decent conversation by being this blunt early on. Or, at the very least, he'd probably just given a horrid first impression of himself.

Much to his surprise, she outright snorted at this.

"Maybe not in those words, but yeah." Alice Neal was curiously amused by the man before her, much to his relief. "Fancy taking a seat?"

_._

"What do you mean you weren't able to make it to _The Keys_, Phyll?" Charlie Grigg had pulled the car over, letting his longtime friend have her phone call in relative peace. "But, when I texted Charlie, he said everything was going well."

"_Then I suppose everything _is _going well, Els. But I don't know what else to tell you: work called me in without giving me any heads up."_

"I understand," But, Elsie Hughes wasn't pleased with the change in plans — not when it implied that the man had avoided another chance for happiness. Personal feelings aside, she wanted happiness for her dear friend. And, she knew he wasn't happy, not these days. He'd seemed content for many years prior, looking to be quite satisfied with work. But these days, much as he'd deny it, she knew his heart wasn't in acting. She knew that work had become only a means for supporting himself now that he'd built a decent reputation in the city. So, if helping him find happiness meant attempting to make a match for him with someone who seemed right up his alley, someone who'd spark life back into her old friend, then that's what she'd do. "Thank you for letting me know, Phyll. I'll talk to you later, alright?"

"_Talk to you later, Els."_

Finishing the call and hanging up with a practiced ease, inner frustration running rampant, Elsie continued to think the matter over. Though, she didn't need to do that: Charlie already knew what her brain was concluding.

"No." He could already tell, just from the glint in her eyes, that his protests weren't going to work tonight. Didn't stop the man from trying. "Let's leave him alone. We badger him enough as it is."

"And when you have to run your lines together tomorrow?" Because Charlie hadn't really been lying when he said their friend was just not that brilliant these days. "Do you want to go through more rehearsals like this last week's?"

The result was instantaneous, the engine sputtering back to life before she'd finished her statement.

"Alright. We'll pop by, see if he's there, and call it a day when we find out he bolted."

Elsie had rolled her eyes as he brought the car back to life and issued his offer, having known that her words would do the trick.

"Deal."

_._

"I didn't realize being on the stage brought so much drama, Charles!" Alice commented, eyes chuckling as he continued regaling her with tales of backstage shenanigans. "I thought it was about _portraying _the drama, not living it!"

"You have no idea, Alice," He said, internally groaning at the thought. "And, worse still, is when the drama doesn't end!"

"What do you mean?"

He'd been on the verge of talking about the gossips in the group, the thespian snobs who hardly knew what they were talking about and still persisted in blathering on for ages — it was a classic complaint he shared with his friends when they needed a good laugh. But, a devious part of him wanted to go off-book. He couldn't, of course. Couldn't tell Alice that seeing a dear friend get hit on by those snobs year after year had him scowling with irritation. He had no real desire in sharing that or revealing that Charlie "harmlessly" flirting with Elsie even when the man was "only joking" was just as painstaking to observe. Didn't want to explain that there were moments where he craved to take a script only he knew and bring it to life with his best mate, where he yearned to create a permanent joint act and bring it into reality.

The problem was, there was no point to telling Alice any of this. Even if she encouraged him to give it a shot, it'd be futile. Without having to ask, Charles knew Elsie would want to stick a solid career instead of something that might not succeed — he felt similarly. So the man stuck to working together and carrying on as the best of friends, content with the situation. He hadn't never dared to pitch the synopsis of his dream to her, knowing the conclusion would be undesirable at best and heartbreaking at worst. And, really, what would be point of ruining delightful friendship for something that wasn't a guarantee?

And, yes, this decision had its moments of pain over the course of their friendship. But, Charles knew that was as good as that was ever going to get.

So, he gave Alice something else.

"Well, one time, a rather large piece of the ceiling fell in the auditorium the very day we were set to perform. Needless to say, it posed a bit of a problem..."

"But, how did you manage? And on opening night?"

He cringed without much effort, thankful that the memory still distracted him as though it were only yesterday. And recalling just how they sorted out that infuriating problem, remembering the ordeals that had been endured over the course of those five hours, he let himself get lost in the story.

"Let's just say that everyone had a bonding experience for that particular show." Alice giggled at this, tickled by the fact that there was a lot more to that story. Though, surprisingly enough, even with an intrigued audience he found himself uninterested in sharing the rest of it. Nothing against her, of course; Alice struck him as a nice person and a kind friend. He'd just rather be recollecting this memory with another woman, someone who was undoubtedly miles away.

Still, this was proving to be a bit of fun. Even worth staying out for once, instead of going over his lines in solitude.

_._

They'd made it to _The Keys _far faster than should've been possible. What with Elsie determined to ensure the blind date was a success and Charlie determined to have a decent rehearsal for the first time in weeks, they arrived at the pub only seven minutes after the phone call with Phyllis.

For reference, it normally would've taken them at least fifteen.

Now it was just a matter of entering the place and seeing if Charles — the name she gave him only in her mind, she made sure not to slip aloud — was still there. If he was and somehow enjoying himself in the presence of the opposite sex, they'd undoubtedly make sure he stayed there for the sake of their future rehearsals. If he was instead still there and bonding with someone from the same sex, they'd reconsider why he'd been resisting their matchmaking efforts and leave him be. And if he was long gone, they'd figure out what to do when they found him.

And, no, the idea that their friend was an adult who could make his own decisions involving love was nowhere in sight, as both Elsie and Charlie were past the point of letting that be an excuse to leave him alone. That might've flown fifteen years ago, when they only got the occasional act together. But, with their performances intermingling on a weekly basis, the friends had long since blurred the lines of work and relationships.

"Just how do you want to go about this, Els?" Charlie asked, giving her pause as she thought the moment through. "If he's alone, shall I be tonight's date or you? Or should I be pinning him to his chair while you round up someone single?"

"Very funny, Charlie." She was hardly laughing. Unfortunately, in her haste to get here on time, the woman hadn't given herself a chance to fully plan out their next actions. Still, her lack of planning made sense: rarely were they this desperate that they'd go back to check in on Charles. Usually, they left him to his own devices and prayed for the best. But, after many of these occasions ending quite poorly, she no longer felt this could be the norm. If Charles was going to find romantic happiness and remember what it meant to hold this sort of love in his life, she had to help him where she could. The alternative only ended in his putting up more walls, tensing up even further in every situation, and letting his acting fall into even more subpar standards.

And, yes, all of those thoughts were her _only _reasons for letting herself get involved with her friend's love life.

"Well," Pausing in the entrance of the pub, Elsie continued to mull this situation over. They couldn't scare him away by barging in guns a-blazing like Americans. But taking too much time could result in his absence, _if_ he was still here. Add the fact that he was probably long gone and her mind couldn't help but blank on what action to take.

"Excuse me, but I need to make sure my friend isn't running away from a date right now." A brash voice, one that spoke of weary irritation, budged past them in the doorway as the owner of the voice maneuvered into the pub. "So if you both could move out of the way, that'd be great."

"Come again?" Elsie couldn't believe the words she'd just heard, thinking this to be far too coincidental to be reality. The red-headed paused in her maneuvering, turning around to shoot an annoyed look in the direction of the pair.

"I'll explain after I've saved the day, thanks." Charlie snorted at the attitude, finding this cheek entertaining and somewhat familiar. There just may be a kindred spirit in their midst. "Because I've spent too many months trying to get this one evening to go right to get distracted now."

If that statement didn't make it clear the woman was on a mission, nothing would.

Interestingly enough, although the redhead was on a mission and looked rather determined to be left alone, Elsie and Charlie found themselves accidentally loitering in her direction — something that happened even as they began their own search. Whether it was due to her confident manner or simple coincidence, all three individuals seemed bond together over the idea of searching for their respective friends. This was to the point where they hardly minded walking the same paths in the pub, now more comrade-in-arms than strangers after the first few minutes.

"You don't happen to see him, do you?" Elsie asked Charlie, peering around the pub but still unable to find their friend anywhere. There were too many groups scattered among the couples, and nowhere could she detect a vibe of awkwardness — something that'd give his location away at once.

"Do you think I'd be talking to you if I had?" The Scottish woman rolled her eyes at Grigg's cheek, too concerned about wanting this evening to be a success to have patience with him. It wasn't her fault that this night was turning into a disaster. And though a very small, incredibly devious, part of her was relieved to jump to the conclusion that Charles Carson hadn't fallen in love tonight, the longtime friend in her was disappointed with the situation.

Eventually, the two friends and the redhead parted ways, each going to recheck different areas of the pub. Surprisingly, _The Keys _had enough going on it wasn't easy to confirm whether or not Charles or the redhead's elusive friend had departed just yet. But, even when the trio wasn't trying to bump into one another, their paths crossed once again.

"Did you find who you were looking for?" The stranger sighed in frustration at this question, looking back into the crowds in lieu of an answer.

"She's not— wait a minute!" A relieved beam quickly threw away any signs of defeat, the woman now grinning in delight. "Thank God; she didn't leave."

"Great." Elsie said, pleased for the woman. Though, when she saw Charles was also accompanied by someone tonight, she couldn't help the confusing pang that struck her at the sight. It was a terribly great sign of his interest if Charles had remained by this woman's side all this time, seeing as how though the pair had been together for about an hour. Still. She didn't know how she really felt about that, after all this searching for him. "Looks like ours didn't leave either."

Now realizing that their respective missions were accomplished, there came a puzzlement about what to do next. The trio awkwardly stood together, not really sure about how to proceed from here. For Elsie and Charlie, it looked like Charles was actually conversing with some woman and wouldn't be leaving anytime soon. For the redheaded woman, it seemed like her friend — wherever that friend was — was in a similar mindset.

All in all, with their tasks completed, there really wasn't a reason to stick around any longer. And even with the thrill of the search now wearing off, the trio couldn't help but feel a sense of pressing camaraderie — a desire to chat as a group and stick around a little while longer.

"So, you gonna go say hi to your friend?" Charlie asked, somewhat curious and not knowing what else to say.

"Why on earth would I do that?" The woman's sharp tone rebuked the thought immediately. "When she's _finally _on a date for the first time in literal months?"

"Oh, one of those." Elsie noted bemusedly, reminded of Charles at the thought. _What a funny coincidence_, she thought as she shoved aside the fact that she herself had not been on a date in years. The difference was, unlike Charles she had no need for romance with a stranger. Personally, love in general just didn't sound appealing after a decade or two of failed relationships. "It sounds like we're both in the same boat."

"Well, if we're in the same boat, then allow me to introduce myself." The redhead held out a hand, a look of understanding peeking out from her eyes. "Beryl Patmore."

"Elsie Hughes" She graciously shook the offered hand, turning to her companion, "And this is Charlie Grigg."

He, in turn, ditched the handshake for a toothy grin as he dramatically bowed his head — chuckling at her clear disinterest. But, before Charlie could continue to irritate the woman with his purposefully obnoxious manners, Elsie decided to move the subject back toward the original conversation.

"So, where's yours?" She asked Beryl, intrigued by the whole coincidence. It wasn't often they met someone who seemed to have the same problems as them, let alone someone who was a fellow matchmaker in disguise.

"Tucked away in that corner." The redhead said, pointing in the general vicinity of where Charles was.

"You're joking," Elsie was stunned, looking once again at that corner of the pub. Other than Charles' table, there wasn't another table in the secluded spot — something that, at the time, had made it easy to finally spot her long-time friend. With that observation, however, a wariness to rose within the performer as she reached another conclusion.

But, this time, it wasn't a conclusion she drew relief from.

"Why would I be joking?" Beryl became a little suspicious, definitely not liking the sound of that bewilderment. It sounded too coincidental. After all, it couldn't possibly be that... "This friend of yours, where's he?"

"In that same corner." Came the honest, blunt response.

Grigg snorted, absolutely content to believe this bizarre little serendipity while the two incredulous women were less inclined. In fact, they were far more content to continue this little back-and-forth interrogation.

"Describe this friend of yours."

"Average height, dark hair, grey eyes, English, and daintier than a flower. Your turn,"

"Taller than Charlie, dark greying hair though he'll say otherwise, brown eyes, English, and sometimes more obstinate than he's worth."

Looking back at the table, Beryl took in this information quite well, all things considered. So did Elsie for that matter, the woman managing to resist the urge to bite her bottom lip even as she triple-checked the table to confirm the facts.

"They're with each other, aren't they?" Charlie piped up, already knowing the answer. For that obvious answer, he received two piercing glares, unison scoffing, and nothing more. "Does that mean we should go check in on them?"

"Don't you even think of it!" "No, it does not!"

_._

"Should we tell them that they've been spotted?" Alice teasingly asked, having long since noticed Beryl's arrival. In fact, her noticing the redhead had pulled the conversation away from discussing her own work and toward discussing blind dates as a concept.

"No," Charles quickly said, blanching at the thought. "I have no desire to interact with such abhorrent matchmakers at this time."

"'Abhorrent matchmakers'?" She asked with a chuckle. "I've called Beryl many things, but _that _was never one of them. And I thought you liked Elsie."

"Well, just because I— Pardon me?"

"As a friend, of course," Although, in all honesty, she suspected it was more than friendship. As much as Charles had tried to regale her with tales about his general career, all stories wound up bringing Elsie Hughes in the picture. And though the man had repeatedly informed her that Elsie was only a friend, she knew what his eyes were really saying about the matter.

"Yes, of course."

Alice coolly raised an eyebrow, an understanding smile dancing on her lips. And though she felt she understood the situation, there was a emptiness in Charles' eyes that kept her sympathy and bemusement alive. A defeated look lined his face, one that spoke of something unnecessarily painful. Suddenly, it felt wrong to talk about Elsie or matchmaking. Whatever caused that emptiness, whatever brought on the defeat, she found herself wanting to take it away.

"Forgive me if it's not my place to say so," Alice's words were unnoticeably stilted, the woman trying to change the subject and failing to do so, "I just admire your friendship, that's all."

He nodded, looking relieved that she wasn't insinuating anything else. _Adorably hopeless, this one_ _is _came to mind even amidst her sympathetic wonderings. And though the urge to help him out grew by the minute, she resisted it. If the woman had learned anything about life, it was that it wasn't her place to interfere when it came to friends in love with one another. Interference could help to an extent, but it was on her friends to be honest with one another and sort out whatever it was that was going on.

Luckily for Alice's concern, it seemed like she didn't need to interfere all that much in order to help.

"To tell you the truth," Charles hesitantly began, looking as though he had something he wanted to get off his best. She inwardly sat up, maintaining a calm exterior even as she attentively leaned in. "I sometimes can't help but wonder if friendship's the best thing that there is."

"What do you think might be the 'best thing'?"

Her honest inquiry sat patiently for his reaction. His eventual response, one that took at least a minute to make?

"I'm not sure."

Alice nodded, wanting to reach out a hand to at least comfort him. But, if she knew tonight's date at all, that would be as helpful as bluntly telling him to take a chance with Elsie.

Maybe though, in this instance, a bit of prodding might help instead.

"Do you think love might be the best thing? Romantic love, that is."

Alice could see a thousand protestations form at the question, probably ingrained habits by now. But the woman also saw her companion tonight looked unable to actually say anything. She could only guess that a dam of arguments had quickly halted any unbidden words from seeping through. Yet, it really looked as though an even larger cascade of watery frustration wanted to be break through the dam with nary a second thought.

_My, my_, she inwardly chuckled at the dramatic thoughts. It seemed her companion's capability to perform had rubbed off her this evening, judging from the fact that her contemplations were never quite this flowery or, well, dramatic.

_._

"Do you think love might be the best thing? Romantic love, that is."

The air felt stifling and surreal, reality hitting him. Here he was, after years of denial, talking to a complete stranger about love of all things. Discussing something that would normally result in his opinion being mocked or dismissed. Candidly questioning his thoughts about a topic he never dreamed of mentioning in public, let alone with someone he'd just met.

Yet he funny thing was, he found it easy to trust her. Felt it was second-nature to be abnormally honest, instinctually knew that Alice Neal was a considerate soul who would hear him and suspend any personal judgment when it came to what he had to say.

At least, that's what he hoped to be the truth.

"I don't know." _But, that's not really accurate, is it, Charlie?_ "Maybe." _Now, we're getting closer to the truth._ "Sometimes."

Nine years was a decently long time by itself, all things considered. Nine years of denial was nearly unbearable.

And seeing as Alice was as likely to stay in his life as Elsie was to court him, capitulation on the subject wasn't going to be the end of the world. So, much as he wanted to mount verbal defenses and take on an offensive tone that would leave him well alone in this regard, there didn't seem to be harm in a little honesty.

It also didn't help that he was so tired of denial.

_._

"I suppose my answer is yes, isn't it?"

She didn't laugh at him, even if she inwardly chuckled — knowing the feeling rather well. Charles didn't come off as the sort of person who talked about this stuff on a regular basis. And though he'd been initially guarded about this topic, she couldn't help but see the truth that lay within him. She still found a sense of familiarity with his situation, understanding his thought process and recognizing it in herself.

"Only if you want it to be, I promise." Alice spoke as kindly as she could, not interested in hurting him or belittling his thoughts.

Her unexpected dinner companion faintly chuckled, distracted. Clearly he needed a second to regain his bearings, the man looking so terribly surprised with his admission. This confession, this conversation alone, may have unintentionally broken down walls that had irrefutably stood for years if not decades.

With that in mind, she hardly minded giving him a minute and letting the conversation be for now.

So, in an effort to give him breathing space, Alice found her gaze drawn to the trio desperately trying to discreetly observe them from a nearby corner in the room. Beryl she could spot a mile away, the redhead a comforting blaze of humour and cheek in the unknown crowd. The man standing next to her, the one with the toothy grin that had Alice cringing a little, seemed good-natured enough. Immature, undoubtedly, but there was a sense of responsibility etching itself into his skin — no doubt, a result of Charles' long-standing influence. This was probably that Grigg character that had occasionally sprung into tonight's stories, the one who somehow brought both frustration and fun to the table.

Still, it was the third person in the group Alice found herself most interested in. The woman with the guarded blue eyes, the one whose smile felt lacking in warmth as it glanced at their table. But the same woman who held flecks of undeniable fondness in her countenance, the same woman who couldn't keep her eyes from Charles even when the man had his back to her.

Truly, reality was obvious here.

And that reality was obvious helped her make a decision with all of this.

"Right. Maybe I should let that kind of love go." Her unintentional date this evening wearily spoke, clearly quite oblivious to the blue-eyed woman's attention. This brought back Alice's focus to Charles, to this man that she had enjoyed the company of but felt nothing more than a friendship for. "Just as well, I suppose. I don't think it's meant for me."

She hummed in disapproval, "I can't suppose that's 'just as well'." Alice retorted, her dainty features giving way to her frank message. And, judging from the fact her words twisted his demeanour into a startled expression, she could continue uninterrupted. "Personally, I believe love is meant for everyone. Sometimes, we just don't always see it."

Charles looked at her with a shielded countenance, poised to tersely debate the topic further, but she remained open and relaxed in her expression. Whether or not he was uncomfortable about this conversation, she was quietly determined to remain calm and open-minded so as to demonstrate that there was nothing to fear. He didn't have to remain on the edge of his seat for her sake, he could just talk to her.

And, soon enough, the tension sank out of him as he gave her words more of his attention, currently more intrigued than he was nervous. There was even a hint of hope in those brown irises, though she wouldn't dare to comment on that while he was still in the process of opening up to her.

"All right. Maybe that's possible." Although he didn't look like he believed her, the man did look like he sincerely wanted to humour the thought. "So, what do you propose I do, Alice? Any advice?"

"Charles, what I propose you do," She began after a brief contemplation, "And what will actually happen are almost guaranteed to be two very different things."

He couldn't help but give a hearty chortle at this, garnering attention for his unrestrained laughter. But it was true: as any performer of the stage would say, things rarely went according to proposals or plans. And it was delightfully refreshing to hear someone explicitly say as much.

"Very true," The man conceded, keeping his response unusually brief. "Still, I'd love any advice you have to offer."

Staring him down, Alice thought the matter over again. It was rare to cross paths with someone like him — someone who was clearly scared of vulnerability and still fairly open to understanding their feelings if prodded enough. Combine that with the realization that Charles did come off as someone who'd take any advice she had for him, instead of sweeping it away with the breadcrumbs of their meal, and she knew this was an unusual opportunity. That, despite whatever had been holding him back for years, he was exhausted by this set-up and willing to consider a shift in directions. That, if there was a chance to change the path he was on, he'd honestly take it.

"Well, if you really want to know," The woman teasingly started, though her eyes reflected nothing but a serious manner within them. And it was this manner that had him focused solely on her, that had him trust what she had to say.

It just so happened that she did have an idea or two.

And, with any luck, it just might work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note: **Isn't it lovely when the universe starts to set things right?
> 
> **Teaser for** "The One With The Dragons"**:**
> 
> "_Once upon a time,"_
> 
> She'd been immersing herself in a historical account of what life had been like in the Edwardian era — a personal, guilty pleasure of hers to look into various historical accounts and see what the past thought the future would be like — when his voice broached through the bookshelves and diverted her attention away.
> 
> Reading what the past thought as the future's potential was almost always entertaining. As she learned over the course of her life, the past tended to either over-exaggerate or underestimate the progress of humanity. Sometimes, the past could hit the present and the future like a nail on the head. Whatever her readings brought her, it also brought with it a healthy dose of reflection. So, how could what sounded like just another fairy tale be of any interest? There was hardly a reason to be drawn in by hearing those famous four words, was there?
> 
> But, she was drawn.
> 
> Undoubtedly drawn with nary a thought directed towards the timeless books in front of her.


	8. The One With The Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note: **For those used to seeing "_Italicized quotations" _represent singing in my writing, know that this will not be the case. Think of it more as a storytelling voice for this story.
> 
> Also, for POI fans who wander across this, yes, this is absolutely a reference to the chapter in _Relevance_ called "And They All Lived (Sorta) Happily Ever After".
> 
> **Technical Note To Make The Reading Easier: **As previously mentioned _"This type of writing" _is going to represent **only **storytelling. No singing in this one!
> 
> **Rating: **K+
> 
> **Word Count: **2,671
> 
> **Warning: **Just another dash of modern-day melancholy this time, a switch in situations, and a shout-out to a minor character.

"_Once upon a time,"_

She'd been immersing herself in a historical account of what life had been like in the Edwardian era — a personal, guilty pleasure of hers to look into various historical accounts and see what the past thought the future would be like — when his voice broached through the bookshelves and diverted her attention away.

Reading what the past thought as the future's potential was almost always entertaining. As she learned over the course of her life, the past tended to either over-exaggerate or underestimate the progress of humanity. Sometimes, the past could hit the present and the future like a nail on the head. Whatever her readings brought her, it also brought with it a healthy dose of reflection. So, how could what sounded like just another fairy tale be of any interest? There was hardly a reason to be drawn in by hearing those famous four words, was there?

But, she was drawn.

Undoubtedly drawn with nary a thought directed towards the timeless books in front of her.

"_There lived a dragon."_

"A dragon? Why a dragon?"

High-pitched whispers broke out amongst the storyteller, for that's what the man had to be with an entrancingly deep voice like that. The whispers were gently shushed with hardly a word, the children somehow managing to come off as something far more endearing than blatant interrupters. In any case, personally, she was on the side of the children listening to the story: why listen to yet another story about a dragon when there were many more interesting things in the world? For instance, her eyes fought to focus on the page in front of her — a piece about the marvels of the toaster was sat waiting for her perusal — and she found herself glancing in the direction of the unassuming speaker.

"_A dragon."_

The man's voice repeated the term warmly, reassuringly. The toaster faded from sight, distracted by the gentle timbre. His continuing words began to subdue her visions of the ancient, legendary beast — the one that was always the villain in these tales and one that she was occasionally compared to, much to her irritation. And, soon, all thoughts faded away. Instead of critiquing the story's set-up, Elsie felt herself giving the voice more attention; she found herself feeling intrigued enough to quietly see where the speaker would take his tale. Hands still clutching the book before her, she inevitably found her head tilting in the voice's direction. And soon enough the image of a dragon majestically soaring across the sky, a creature whose demeanour radiated a nobility that none could match, came to life.

"_A dragon, who,_

_Unlike so many others before it,_

_Protected and worked with the people of the land."_

"A dragon that helps people?"

Clearly, at least one of the children still thought the story had to be wrong — why else would they so loudly question the storyteller's words again?

_Let him speak, _Elsie gently commanded, though there had hardly been a need for it: the storyteller was already kindly responding. The regal creature was ascending once more into the heavens and settling deep into her imagination. It were as though she could see it in the room: scarlet scales gleaming in the day's gaze, russet orbs peering out into the world. A fiery kindness rested within its blood, a gentle strength that radiated a tempered power.

"Yes. A dragon that helps people of all kinds, no matter the circumstance."

Well, it was a fascinating start to any story. And not only was she finding herself caught in the set-up of the story, she wanted to hear the path it'd go. While Elsie hadn't realized that she'd be near a children's reading today, a children's reading here a rarity in itself, this was becoming less and less of a problem. Instead, she found herself drawn to imagining more of the details of this world, painting an impression of the world that this grand creature resided in. She would duck out the second she caught wind of a damsel in distress or any other silly hints of old-fashioned sexism. But, for now, here she was and there he was speaking — out of sight, but still quite audible with that captivating register.

And, so, she would listen.

"_The dragon's name was"_

Here the man paused a moment, sounding a little strained.

"_Becky."_

The name meant nothing to her, but clearly had bearing on the speaker. And though she now wanted to interrupt the story, find out just who this Becky was, Elsie was fairly content with giving the man a respectful silence in which to continue. In her mind, the nobility that ran through the veins of this creature now twitched with a wistful quality. The imperial quality that had sketched itself out her imagination was now faltering in its conviction, giving way to a doleful undertone.

"_And Becky had a brother dragon_

_Named Charles."_

_._

The children had been a tougher bunch than normal, not settling down like so many other children he'd read to in the past. But, it made sense: they were in an unfamiliar section of the library and probably felt on edge because of it. Not only that, his young listeners had already been repeatedly informed to remain as quiet as possible, another unusual requirement for the afternoon. And, instead of talking about something cool and futuristic as was typical for 2019, he was bringing them back to what felt like a more traditional fairytale.

Still, the man did love a good challenge. And when the children all eventually fell quiet with curiosity, now listening out of admiration for the adventures of Becky and Charles — something that touched his heart, considering how many of them were opposed to it all in the beginning — he knew this had been a good reading. Now he just needed to make sure his telling this story hadn't disrupted the other readers in this section of the library. The assistant had informed him that the place would be virtually empty except for maybe one or two readers, but he still didn't like the idea of taking over a space he had no right to.

Luckily, he had only seen one other person nearby, someone hidden by the stacks. Luckier still, whoever it was hardly looked perturbed by his readings. In fact, they seemed to be a bit engaged with the story, the sounds of a book being quietly set down permeating through the bookshelves. Still, that didn't always mean the accidental listener actually _liked_ the story. It just meant that they were listening.

Yes, well, even if Charles did want to apologize to the reader behind the stacks, that idea came to a clumsy halt when his phone buzzed to life. Instantly demanding his attention, the newfangled technology shrilly disturbed what was normally a sanctuary for him.

_Right. _For a moment, he'd forgotten his stories were only that — stories.

_._

After hearing the heroic tales of the dragons Becky and Charles — saving the towns in Yorkshire and reminding distant lands not to judge a dragon by its snout — Elsie found her delving into historical accounts completely forgotten. Instead, she discovered a strange desire to meet the man who'd been reading to the children. The picture of the regal creatures still resided in her mind, inherently taking her focus with it. And because of it, she had the urge to meet the man who provided this story today; she wanted to interact with the mind who breathed life into such a touching story.

Once she'd given herself another moment to think this through, the impulsivity feeling a bit foreign to her, the woman pushed himself to her feet. She hardly needed to gather any courage — she only wanted to meet the voice that had unintentionally stolen her attention for the last thirty minutes, nothing more.

There was only one problem—

"Pardon me," Elsie politely began to ask the closest library assistant, pleased that the young man was giving his full attention without much prompting. "But, was there someone reading children stories nearby?"

"Oh, you just missed him," The assistant responded, oblivious to her growing disappointment. "He had to take a phone call."

That confirmed the unfortunate suspicion she'd had: the mysterious storyteller was already long gone. Elsie had stopped hearing his voice, after all, having lost it in the sound of children quietly chattering away.

"Quite sorry if it interrupted your time at the library, ma'am," The young man continued, taking her disappointment for frustration about the disturbance. "I'm afraid last night's storm ruined his normal area, so we had to move today's session into here. It should only be the one time, but I am sorry if it was a bother."

"Not at all," Well, that explained why his voice had made an appearance in this vicinity of the library in the first place. "I take it these readings are a regular occurrence?"

"Every Sunday, he comes in and reads for anyone who'll listen." He explained, "The little tykes love the stories and the parents love the lessons that come with 'em."

"I see," How she'd never encountered paths with this storyteller prior to today, being a frequent visitor of the library, she'd never know.

"Oh, there he goes right now, I guess he didn't leave after all." Elsie raised an eyebrow, watching as the attendant pointed towards the entrance of the library. The storyteller hadn't quite exited the building just yet, still having some distance to go. And, before she knew what she was doing, Elsie found herself muttering a belated "Excuse me," as she began to trail after the man in question. She had nothing planned, but there was a desire to at least put a face to a name if not pass on some well-deserved praise.

And, what a face it was, too. A kind wisdom peered out from those brown eyes, traces of maturity as well as a gentle consideration lining his face, with a hint of a smile present even when his lips remained neutral. Elsie couldn't really glimpse anything else from this distance, but with his phone call just wrapping up she could catch up to him. And when he'd hesitated upon leaving the building — looking at the drizzle beginning to take over the outside world — Elsie took this as an opportunity to speed up just a tad and make her presence known.

"Excuse me, but were you reading a story to the children just now?"

The man looked in her direction, distracted by the question.

"I was," He calmly responded in that wonderful voice, though his eyebrows had furrowed sheepishly in response. "I hope that it wasn't too distracting."

"It was wonderful to listen to," Elsie confessed, pleased to watch those eyebrows settle down as that lovely smile returned. The pair remained in the entrance for another beat, the woman recollecting herself as she began to ask, "Did you walk here or are you taking the bus?"

She herself hadn't actually planned on taking public transportation today, having felt content to walk the few miles necessary to get back home. But, the question spilled out before she could say anything else and she couldn't really regret it.

"Bus, you?" Indicating a bus stop in the opposite direction of her home, the storyteller was oblivious to her subtle frustration at this discovery. So much for continuing to chat, just the two of them. "Is that your stop as well?"

"I'm actually that way," No point in lying, though that fact did continue to dash a bit of hope for further conversation. "May I walk you to your stop?"

"Sure," The storyteller nodded, letting her walk alongside him as they exited the building, heading down the pavement in the direction of his bus stop. And even though they now walked alongside one another, something felt a bit stifling and wrong, ceasing any further conversation. After a few seconds of trying to figure out what was wrong, she realized that melancholy was tinting the silent air, stopping any desire to continue talking.

Fortunately, that didn't last long.

"I normally enjoy the rain." The storyteller softly confessed, looking up into the sky after a few minutes of silence. "But, I can't afford to get sick these days."

"I understand." A good storm could be the most refreshing thing to experience. It could be invigorating, fierce, and incredibly satisfying. But, beyond stating those two words, Elsie remained silent on the topic. She knew that sometimes the best way to converse with someone was to let them do the talking.

And it seemed like this man needed to do some talking.

Soon enough, he was explaining bits and pieces, slowly dissipating the disheartening atmosphere with his words. Not much was given away, mind; he seemed too proud to give all of his grief and problems to her, understandably so. But, she found herself discovering that _he _was Charles, that Becky was his sister, that this was one of many jobs he had taken on to support them, and that — Elsie was assuming this next bit, but felt reasonably assured this was the case — even though Becky was all the family he had and he loved her so very dearly, this life was taking a toll on him.

Fortunately, that particular lack of information only stemmed from his bus coming into sight and his, almost regretfully, starting to send her off. The stop in conversation didn't come from a desire to escape Elsie's company or some equivalent, a revelation that had the woman feel oddly comforted. And, though she should've let the meeting end there, what with his bus only half a block away, she still had one more question to ask. One final inquiry to make, a thought that wouldn't leave her alone as much as she wanted to keep it to herself.

"So, you're here every week?"

"Yes, I am." He looked back at his bus, which was now a quarter of a minute from pulling up to the stop. "And, I should be back in my normal spot by next week — I really do hope it wasn't too distracting today."

"Not at all," Elsie couldn't let him leave on that note, not wanting him to feel discouraged when she felt far from it. No, in all honesty, Becky and Charles' little adventure was much more thrilling to listen to than any of her books today. The only one that might've compared was the marvels of the toaster, but she hadn't gotten a chance to read it. Still, "I look forward to hearing more adventures next week!"

Charles chuckled a bit, a little flustered by the unexpected compliment. Rarely, when these sorts of things happened, did the unintentional listeners _like _his material. And so, when the doors of the bus opened, the man couldn't stop an odd feeling of disappointment from taking over his minds as he stepped up onto the awaiting platform.

"Well, then, I'm looking forward to reading to you again next week!"

He had made that remark right as the bus closed its door, a little regretful of how forward it was even though he didn't regret its sentiments. And with the wind and rain rapidly picking up speed, Elsie was nearly convinced she had misheard him. But, as the bus began to pull away, she could see those brown eyes warmly looking through the glass and giving a small and hopeful smile in her direction. In turn, she gave a little smile herself, her own initial disappointment at his departure fading away for something unrecognizable but... nice.

_Well, that was something. _What had only been a brief curiosity was now turning into something a bit more. And while she didn't really have a clue as to what she felt about that, didn't even know if there was something to really think about, she couldn't help but continue watching that bus carry on. All Elsie really knew was that she was rather looking forward to next Sunday and she hoped Charles genuinely did, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note: **How's that for a bit of a role-reversal, eh? And so, even though there's a sprinkle of angst we do have hope that, at least in this universe, it'll work out for them :)
> 
> **Teaser for** "The One With The Security Officer"**:**
> 
> While he never cared to stay on-campus this late these days — due to the rising crime of the last semester, more than anything else — there really wasn't any reason for _this_ to occur. That this unnecessary obstacle were to be sprung upon him now, just as he was leaving the campus, was trying to say the least.
> 
> "I am sorry, Professor Carson," Barrow was firm, if not a little smug in his tone. Arrogant little tosser who was relishing his newfound authority, in the teacher's humble opinion. "But as a student worker of our uni's beloved Campus Safety, what with all the thefts' and other crimes occurring at this late hour, I can't allow you to walk to your car without an escort."
> 
> _You must be joking._
> 
> _You, of all people, have to be joking._


	9. The One With The Security Officer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note: **It's a bit earlier than normal, but that's only because it's going to be a crazy next two days.
> 
> No fusions this time, this little story is about having a little fun and poking fun at an earlier experience I witnessed. And, though it involves security, rest assured when I say it's not at all similar to the _Person of Interest _piece.
> 
> **Rating: **K, maybe K+
> 
> **Word Count: **2,494
> 
> **Warning: **Thomas is an imp, the story is overall far more playful this time, Charles is a bit presumptuous and he gets to learn why you shouldn't assume in general.

While he never cared to stay on-campus this late these days — due to the rising crime of the last semester, more than anything else — there really wasn't any reason for _this_ to occur. That this unnecessary obstacle were to be sprung upon him now, just as he was leaving the campus, was trying to say the least.

"I am sorry, Professor Carson," Barrow was firm, if not a little smug in his tone. Arrogant little tosser who was relishing his newfound authority, in the teacher's humble opinion. "But as a student worker of our uni's beloved Campus Safety, what with all the thefts' and other crimes occurring at this late hour, I can't allow you to walk to your car without an escort."

_You must be joking._

_You, of all people, have to be joking._

"Surely there's no need for that: my car is only a few blocks away, it's not on the other side of campus." Besides, he was a _professor_. Not a student. He did not require to be walked around by some portly officer as though he were a child looking for his parents.

"But, professor, your car is — as you've mentioned in your lectures this week — always parked a little over twenty minutes away. And, now that you mention it, I'm surprised this is your attitude on the subject. Especially seeing as how your recent lectures have frequently discussed the probability involved in these crimes and the importance of safety. As you yourself said on more than one occasion, a lot can happen in twenty minutes." Indignant protestations were still firmly bubbling to the surface, even as the student in question began to ring up the official number for their uni's Campus Safety. "Hello, Campus Safety? This is Thomas Barrow speaking."

"Is this really necessary, Barrow?"

"Yes," The pupil resolutely answered — not only in response to Mr. Carson but to whoever was on the end of that line. "I'd like to request an escort for a Professor Charles Carson."

Barrow continued on, methodically listing their location as well the location his professor intended on reaching. And yes, his student was absolutely ignoring his professor's incessant cringing over the use of the word "escort". Honestly, the more the lecturer cringed the more Thomas _accidentally_ slipped the term into the phone call.

"Hughes will be Professor Carson escort for this evening, correct? Good to hear! And Hughes, Professor Carson's escort, will be here in five minutes?" _Now, you're just being smug, _the professor darkly thought to himself, schooling his features to remain indifferent at the distasteful word. "Excellent, thank you so very much, Andy. I'll be sure to let Professor Carson know that his escort is on the way!"

Suffice it to say, Charles didn't like how pleased and conceited Barrow now sounded with himself. Said arrogance could only possibly be because, as the young man stated earlier, the professor had been occasionally lecturing on safety for the last few weeks. Yes, well, he'd really only been doing that for the sake of his students. He knew that criminals wouldn't come after him, not with his being a professor. Though, perhaps he ought to refrain from emphasizing the importance of safety in these matters. Not because safety was an unimportant topic, but because it would be ammunition for his pupils in situations like the one at hand.

Still, whether Barrow was willing to admit it or not, the professor was quite valid in giving these solemn reminders of keeping constant vigilance. After all, in light of all the recent crimes occurring on-campus, it made perfect sense. As such, he felt it was his duty to give his students several lectures on the importance of safety — interspersed with their learning materials, of course. His lectures, of course, were completely logical and proved his current case wholeheartedly: they were students whereas he was a professor. He was hardly going to be a target for some common criminal, now was he?

"Officer Hughes will be just a few more minutes, Professor." Barrow informed him, making no move to leave his dear teacher just yet.

"And if I decide to carry on without Officer Hughes?"

"Then I will be forced to give your location to Officer Hughes and a pursuit will have to ensue." And, yes, it did sound as though the student worker _wanted _his professor to take that route. No doubt so as to have a hilarious story to mention to his fellow students if not obtain potential blackmail for down the road. "I'd like to just remind you, sir, that all Campus Safety workers take our responsibilities quite seriously, no matter what those responsibilities are."

Yes, well, that only confirmed Charles' decision to remain where he was.

Besides, surely this Hughes fellow would be a reasonable man. Someone who would understand that an escort, loathe as he was to say the word, for an esteemed professor should not be the priority of a Campus Safety Officer. Yes, he could imagine this officer as clear as day: someone getting on a little bit in the years, as many Campus Safety officers do. Possibly a little grey in the hair, a little emphasis on the waistline, certainly a congenial air conducive to letting esteemed professors walk to their cars unaccompanied.

Though, how Charles even found himself receiving an escort to his car in the first place was beyond him. He'd just been making his way out of the English department, having stayed behind due to a desire to mark some papers whilst there was still light out. Then, time flew without his permission and he'd found himself — _Wait a minute. I remember how this happened._

The professor glanced back at Barrow with more than mere frustration, remembering that the younger man had happened upon him in the hallway. Why the student was out patrolling the hallways when —

Oh, that's right.

Barrow worked for Campus Safety.

Still does, in fact.

_._

Much to Charles' immense shock, Hughes was not a man.

Worse still, in the opinion of the good professor, Hughes was not being reasonable.

_._

"Miss Hughes—" Oh, she'd had quite enough of that attitude from the boys back in the office. Even though Elsie Hughes had worked in security of all types for the last decade or so, there was always someone bestowing a patronizing "Miss Hughes" to her, whether she was in uniform or not. Well, she had a job to do and this hoity-toity professor who thought himself holier-than-thou was not going to get in the way of her enjoying what had been an uneventful evening.

"_Officer_ Hughes, thank you." Keeping her voice cordial but firm, she fixed an obstinate stare at her latest case. The man's blatant opinion of the whole situation, that he was shocked by her existence as a security officer, did not impress her in the slightest. Add to that the fact that she hadn't a chance to enjoy her tea at the student café — they always saved her something for these late-night patrols — and Elsie Hughes was not in the mood for this sexist attitude.

"Officer Hughes," The officer in question could already feel the unintentional offense coming a mile away. No doubt this Professor Carson had fixed opinions about the roles of men and women in society. And sure enough, "Surely, there are more important tasks for a Campus Safety Officer to perform? Besides, no one should be walking alone at night — let alone a woman."

She stiffened in her place, still somehow maintaining a sense of professionalism even as he continued to unwittingly dismiss her position as a security officer. Though, as someone who'd been dealing with this sort of treatment for years, she decided there was no point to outright arguing with the man. No, arguing rarely worked well when it came to persuading people she was perfectly capable of doing her job.

Instead, it was time to ask him a question.

"Professor Carson, what do you consider to be one of the most important parts of teaching?" This was intended to be a no-brainer sort of inquiry for the professor, something she figured he would undoubtedly have had an answer for ages by now.

Much to nobody's surprise, he did.

"To ensure that the duties inherent in academia are fulfilled. That the students and myself are able to walk away from a lecture knowing exactly what the point was. That they understand the importance of their lectures. And that we all feel and understand our sense of purpose when it comes to learning."

She gave a brief nod at this, having anticipated his answer being something along those lines. Well, at least his heart was in the right place even if his policies toward female security officers had her scowling in disbelief. Still, having worked at this particular uni for now four years, Elsie had a fair idea as to how to approach this conversation.

"Do you not think, Professor," She curtly began to ask once more, fairly confident she knew what his next answer would be. "That it's important for that sense of purpose to be found both in and out of the classroom?"

"Well, yes, of course," Charles started to respond, looking terribly clueless as to her line of thought. Yeah, this was undoubtedly not the first time some stuffy curmudgeon was caught off-guard by her questions. Especially seeing as how she managed to speak to said curmudgeons in an even tone, making sure they had no reason to think she was being "irrational" or "bogged down by her emotions". Anyway, her respect wouldn't matter if she didn't catch the rest of his statement, that, "There's really no point in living if one is lacking in purpose."

_Exactly. So glad we agree on that. Makes this far easier. _Elsie really hated it when people listened to her arguments only to provide loopholes that suited their needs. It wasn't really listening when someone else only wanted to prove you wrong, and she'd had enough decades of that attitude to last her a lifetime.

"Well, then. In that case, if part of my purpose this evening is to escort a professor to his vehicle, should I not proceed to fulfill that purpose?"

That line of question looked to have stopped him in his tracks, the man looking as though he was stumbling about in his thoughts. And though she didn't need to prove all of his beliefs wrong or bring about an existential crisis, as was so common on collegiate campuses, she did need him to respect her and the job she had to do.

"Well," Professor Carson repeated, literally coming to a halt. Truth be told, he looked rather unappreciative of the sound argument. Even if effective arguments were typically sought after in his profession, it looked like the man wanted to make an exception in this case. Which, only figures seeing as how that would imply he had to be content with her completing her job and escorting him to his car. "I suppose so."

That'd been easier than she anticipated, but Elsie wasn't convinced of his sincerity. He didn't look as irritated with her as some of the other professors tended to, this was a fairly typical conversation in all honesty, but his concession felt more tepid than anything else.

"Then, will you allow me to fulfill my purpose? Or are we to delay Barrow's departure further?"

Arching an eyebrow in the direction of her fellow Campus Safety worker, having taken note of Barrow's glee incessantly growing the longer the conversation lasted, she could reach one final conclusion: something told her that, based on Barrow's behaviour alone, Professor Carson would soon be walking alongside her into the night and she'd finally get to have her much-needed tea.

Because, truly, not much got in the way of her and her tea.

Or, at least, not much had gotten in the way until these robberies and petty crimes had sprung up on campus.

"I don't mind either way, professor." The student piped up cheerfully, all too happy to keep witnessing this riveting conversation. And knowing his type as well as she did, Elsie could only thank the boy for being a brat right now — it would only help speed up the process of this escort.

"Right." Judging from the professor's stony gaze, it looked Barrow's continued presence wouldn't do, not one bit. "Officer Hughes, I think it's time we fulfilled your purpose this evening."

Her lips twitched just a smidge at this, finding humour in the words. Clearly he wasn't flirting with her, but in another context that could've easily been a pick-up line. And being fairly certain of the type of professor this Carson was, she knew how mortified he'd be when his words caught up with him.

Almost as though on cue, the man blushed a bit, fidgeting with his hands and awkwardly looking off to the side. Gone was the austere persona. Instead came this practically endearing stupefaction that made these last five minutes almost worth it. So much for being a curmudgeon through and through.

_Right. Let's take you out of your misery then. _"Why, thank you, Professor Carson."

It was almost endearing that he offered his arm at this, probably out of habit more than anything. Still, "I'm afraid I'll have to decline." See, strolling about with arms linked was not only ineffective if something were to happen, it would also slow down the walk back to the professor's car and further delay her getting her tea. "It wouldn't be conducive should something occur."

"Right."

_I bet you wish you'd gone another way tonight, _Hughes couldn't help but dryly think to herself as she waited for the professor to start walking toward his car, seeing how uncomfortable he still was with the situation. _But, you're stuck with me until you're back in your car, whether you like it or not._

Luckily for her, Professor Carson was able to get himself together when it came to recollecting his bearings. Managing a somewhat dignified air, the man hurriedly led on in the path back to his vehicle even as she inwardly snickered. Of course, Elsie would never dare to openly make fun of him; even if she thought his opinions on gender roles were horribly outdated, she was too much of a professional to find any pleasure in openly mocking him.

But, make no mistake: she would not be holding back the laughter when she finally had her cuppa in hand. For the image of this professor — someone who had struck her as rather polished and probably thought himself incredibly gallant — flusteredly stalking past her in a flurry of awkwardness... it was far too hilarious for words.

"It's not funny you know," Professor Carson eventually protested, knowing where her thoughts laid even though she hadn't said a word.

"Of course not, sir." _Whatever you say, sir._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note: **I must say, it's hilarious to reverse these particular roles! And having seen Phyllis Logan pull off the role of an ambitious police officer in "Pie In The Sky", I couldn't stop laughing as I worked on this.
> 
> In any case, I hope you enjoyed that snippet of potential as much as I did. And, whether you did or not, I hope you enjoy this final teaser. It is the _Victor/Victoria _fusion, for those who have been waiting:
> 
> **Our Final Tease****r for** "The One With The Voice"**:**
> 
> Elisabeth "Elsie" Hughes, for all her current outward composure, was reeling from the sound of the applause that surrounded her in this moment. It had been a very, _very _long time since people had truly paid attention to her voice and regaled her with such approval. And, even when she was considered a second-rate soprano, the applause never sounded this tremendous. In fact, these seconds of roaring acclamation felt like all the things that came before it — her ghastly hotel room, four days of starvation, Mr. Tufton's horrid advances, desperately offering her virtue for a meatball in a last-ditch effort not to starve, handling the _cockroach _with Thomas — had all been quite worth it.
> 
> But, applause or not, the song had only been part of the test. An essential part, but only one part. After all, this debut night would only be deemed a success if the song won the crowd and if she could convince them of her act....


	10. The One With The Voice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Alternative Title for Kicks and Giggles: **"The One With The Crossdressing"
> 
> **Author's Note: **As a finale for this little series, it's only fitting that it's a performance. After all, this series started with a show of sorts. In any case, **this one-shot is a lot more playful and risqué** than the rest - having been inspired by a hilariously fun musical. For those who are fans of the musical "Victor Victoria", I suspect you'll recognize this. And for those who want a visual/musical representation of the song you're about to witness, look up "Le Jazz Hot - Victor o Victoria".
> 
> **Technical Note To Make the Reading Easier: **When the words "_Look like this" _that means at least one person is singing.
> 
> **Rating: **T for sure, if not a light M for themes/suggestions
> 
> **Word Count: **3,371
> 
> **Disclaimer: **I do not own either _Downton Abbey _or _Victor Victoria. _Nor am I a costume designer. As such, if there any cringe worthy clothing descriptions, just leave a comment describing the appropriate terms and I will be more than happy to correct the mistakes!
> 
> **Warning: **_This is _**_the most risqué of these ten writings_**. It's definitely **a T that hints at M-material** even though nothing officially happens. Very different from normal, and while I think it'd be overkill to label it as NSFW, I do know that when a writer deviates from their normal tone it can be surprising.

Sultry tones slinked across from the musicians to the stage area, a scene wherein curtains held back the riveting story on the other side. Brass melded together to stun the audience into giving away their full attention, the jazzy atmosphere sashaying through the anticipating crowd. Trumpet, trombone, saxophone, each boldly sang their respective piece and gave way to the still out-of-sight emcee. Eventually the man of the moment, dressed in a white tuxedo, stepped out into the spotlight. Ready to deliver the start of tonight's next act, he suavely approached the microphone before beginning to make his riveting announcement.

"Ladies and gentlemen," The emcee energetically started, basking in the heated glow of the spotlight as his eyes blazed with excitement.

"What are we doing here, Charlie? You said we were gonna have some fun." The low complaint brought nothing other than a scoff, both individuals more than a little unimpressed with the other.

"You wanted us to do something fun — well, this _is _fun."

"The night club is proud to present," The announcer continued, oblivious to the continuous murmurs in the crowd.

"Charlie, we're in charge of this stuff every week. It's like being at a shop or factory long after the shift's ended. So, let me rephrase my question: _this_ is what we ditched our bodyguards for?" Charlie Grigg continued to complain about the situation, not particularly in the mood for what was probably going to be a classier version of their normal show. "It's not worth it, right, Alice? Edna? Miss P?"

"The only and only Elisabeth!"

Alice Neal, Edna Braithwaite, and Beryl Patmore didn't have time to agree or disagree the disgruntled man — the stage's curtains were already pulling themselves back to reveal a lone figure with her back to the crowd, one who stood gracefully on an elevated platform. And with more than one voice shushing Charlie Grigg, it looked to be time for his old friend and business partner to be promptly shutting up.

The spotlight transitioned, now beaming directly onto the figure as a lone chord was strummed from the orchestra pit. The performer smoothly turned around to face the crowd, iridescent blue eyes complementing both the particularly chic midnight black garb she was wearing and the beaded cloche resting on her head. And it was with a confident and soundless breath that she began to sing.

"'_Bout twenty years ago,_

_Way down in New Orleans,"_

The Scottish woman, for it had to be a woman with a lilt as silky and divine as that, remained as still as a statue. She allowed her voice to carry the movement most performers relied upon for attention, the horns in the background enveloping her words in a provocative sort of tone.

"_A group of fellas_

_Found a new kind of music."_

There was hardly a need to shush anyone now. Almost the entire crowd was riveted by the singer in the voluminous black robes, the performer who was only just getting started. Without much effort on her part, she managed to ensnare almost everyone in sight with a roguishly subdued air.

"_And they decided to call it_

_Jazz."_

Starting to delve into relaxed movements, the woman smoothly let a hand slide through the air as though the space were water. Every eye followed the leisurely gesture, the crowd entranced by the movement. And as she began to languorously start to unfasten her outer robe, the feathers and the delightful material shimmering in the light, a certain club owner took note of his now transfixed friend.

_So much for it not being "fun"_. Charles Carson hadn't intended to bring them to the club purely for this act or any other act in particular. Since having discovered that this specific nightclub had some of the best reviews, he knew they'd be almost guaranteed a fabulous show. So, much as he'd rather spend his evening inside one of the many museums of Paris, he knew his companions would find this sort of entertainment to be far more relaxing.

"_No other sound has_

_What this music has."_

The midnight black robe was lifted at the ravishing tempo of _adagio_, revealing a stunning costume that fitted her ever so nicely. Streams of a flashy and beaded material accentuated the overarching gown, gorgeous plumes resting at the bottom of the piece. And as she glided down the steps on the stage, the plentiful rows of dark beads that made up her sleeves trailed after her, swaying in her steps.

"_Before they knew it_

_It was whizzing 'round the world."_

Approaching the other performers as she stepped onto the main floor, the woman languidly moved about as though she were all alone. And, strangely enough, even though this was a room packed with people, with the stage lights dimmed to such an astonishing degree it created the illusion of absolute privacy.

"_The world was ready_

_For a new kind of music."_

As her appealing voice lusciously dipped into both high and low notes, Charles couldn't help but lean forward in immense curiosity — feeling as though this were already ten steps up from his own shows. And knowing that there was always something to learn from the world, he was very much interested in garnering any new inklings of knowledge from this performance. His interest, of course, had nothing to do with the fact that he was gradually finding himself quite enthralled by the woman on stage, not one bit.

"_And now they play it_

_From Steamboat Springs_

_To La Paz."_

Snaps sprung up from all performers on the stage, a sensual and mischievous sound dancing around as the tempo picked up. Horns flirted with the choreography, decadent momentum beginning to climb newfound heights as the singer continued to take the limelight.

"_Oh, baby,_

_Won't you play me_

_Le Jazz Hot,_

_Baby?"_

Hands floating up and arcing around like they were in a room for two instead of a nightclub, the performer glided through her promiscuous choreography with a scandalous fluidity. She was dazzling in her supposedly modest actions, still reeling everyone in with the barest hint of movement.

"_And don't ever let it end,"_

As though she were born to strut around the stage, the blue-eyed singer maintained a regal air of a lady. Even sashaying about in a far more indecorous manner did not deter her from holding a refined poise. Still, regality or not, unbidden images of a highly unbecoming nature were still springing to mind. And, for once in his life, Charles had no desire to quell the desire or throw the images away, choosing instead to let himself be pulled further into the sound.

Nevertheless, it was a bit surprising, all things considered. He himself had been a stage performer before he became co-owner of their little nightclub. And the life that came with performing had hardly ever caused him to feel this flustered — even though he'd witnessed _a lot _on and off the stages back home.

"_I tell you friend_

_It's really something to hear."_

"I could enjoy this," Grigg coarsely muttered under his breath, referring to the woman's act and somehow making the whole thing seem tastelessly garish. Charles refrained from glaring for once, letting Beryl subtly elbow their colleague instead.

"_I can't sit still when there's that_

_Rhythm near me!"_

The music kicked back up again as all performers on stage smoothly rearranged themselves. Alice took this moment to observe the others in the group, somewhat amused by the reactions:

Edna looked distinctly unimpressed by the whole act, her eyes determinedly scowling even as she feigned a smile. Beryl was faintly impressed by the woman on stage and more than amused by the reactions of her male companions, understandably so. Charlie was practically drooling while Charles — he went by Charlie when it was just the three of them, but he had always struck Alice more as a Charles — looked positively shellshocked.

The nightclub singer only wished for some way to record the pair's expressions, finding these few seconds far more entertaining than the pair's old acts together. Nevertheless, although she couldn't capture the moment, she could take solace in the fact her manager was also appreciating this sight and shared in her amusement.

"_Also, baby,_

_Le Jazz Hot may be_

_What's holding my soul t_ _ogether,"_

Sailing through the stage — seeming to be having the time of her life — the woman's voice tangoed and waltzed through her notes. Little did the audience know, she hadn't ever had this sort of performance before, adoring it all completely and milking the whole thing for what it was worth. For, whether or not she was new to this sort of sound, she wasn't new to performing. She knew how easy it was for a show to flop and how important it was to savour any moment of success, as little as they could sometimes be.

"_Don't know whether it's morning or night!  
Only know it's sounding right!"_

Luckily, they all seemed hooked by her show. By this point, she was far more than merely "compelling" or "fascinating"; every mesmerizing action the performer took gripped their attention without even trying.

"_So come on in and play me_

_Le Jazz Hot, baby,_

_'Cause I love my jazz,"_

Hips swinging once more as she deftly maneuvered to the stairs upstage, she breathily whispered "Hot." with a hint of a smirk in her eyes. And even as more back-up dancers took to the stage and nearly obscured her from view, the dancers just as determined as the horns to reclaim the spotlight, Charles only had eyes for her — his desire to interact with the woman in any capacity fiercely growing by the minute. Whether it was to talk as performers honing in on their respective crafts or to merely pass on admiration for this show, he longed to meet this woman before the night was over.

"_Before they knew it_

_It was whizzing 'round the world!"_

Jazz had never been a great interest of his. Too often it was far too provocative, too audacious for his liking.

She was quickly changing that opinion.

Within her daringly tantalizing movement, she still held a distinctly aristocratic air. One that informed him that she not only knew this provocative lifestyle well, she was equally familiar with a life that went beyond the world of stage. That she, too, understood the overall art of performance and knew all about stylish presentation.

"_The world was ready for a new kind of music!"_

He'd seen many women strut about the stage and exude a gaudy sexual appeal, failing to grasp the thin line between lurid titillations and sumptuous sensuality. Their clothes were far more revealing, their movements far more obvious in nature, and their overall manner cheapening the supposed thrill — easily desensitizing the audience before them and ruining their supposed appeal.

This was _not _one of those performances.

"_And now they play it_

_From Steamboat Springs to La Paz!"_

She was now revealing milky white legs to the crowd, having abandoned her enticing gown to reveal a spellbinding leotard underneath. This was why, when Charlie whispered something else to the table, Charles found himself oblivious to the man's words. For not only was she unveiling more of her beauty to the crowd, she was also indicating that the performance was building into a glorious climax, one that promised inordinate resolution. And one that he was all ears for.

"_When you play me_

_Le Jazz Hot, baby,_

_You're holding my soul together!"_

As the performers reached the key-changing _coda _of the piece, the choreography had their legs kicking out in-sync with the percussion as their arms linked for the final section — swiftly bringing all on stage out to the edge.

"_Don't know whether it's morning or night!"_

Now eagerly past the glorious point of no return, _forte _unashamedly prowled off the stage and darted into the continuously rising heat that held the crowd, tension trailing after it.

_"Only know it's sounding right!"_

One by one, each of the back-up dancers swiveled around her as the woman continued to hold her own — proudly, effortlessly keeping up with the best of them and then some.

"_So come on in and play me_

_Le Jazz Hot, baby!"_ _  
_

Of course, it hardly mattered to him if she had dozens of back-up dancers or none — there was only one performer he remained invested in watching throughout this entire time.

_"'Cause I love my jazz_

_Hot!"_

Holding out that shimmering _mezzo-soprano_ note for as long as she could, the Scottish singer seemed to rise above the crowd on stage as she nimbly sauntered back up the platform's steps. Even with the energy required with such movement, she remained fantastic in producing a vibrant tone that radiantly soared over the room. But that tone was going to absolutely pale in comparison to what was coming next.

"_Le Jazz,"_

Crouching into herself and still retaining an appealing look about her, the performer began to voice a riveting "_Hot" _in a much lower register than before. Gradually, she began to lift her lush body off the ground in an artful fashion alongside her sound. And with a voice grandly sailing through two octaves in a jaw-dropping _glissando_, she once again stole the attention of every single individual in the room. Even those who had watched her rehearse this act for days — the elusive owner who truly ran the show, her audacious business partner and friend, the various professional choristers on the stage — couldn't help but observe the alluring act complete itself.

As she finished the last of her _glissando_, the performer let her hands coolly drop to her hips — fixing the audience with one final smoky stare. And with one last stage-whisper, as though it were a secret every audience member was privy to, she gave the song a downright husky finish:

"Le Jazz Hot!"

Flourishing the words with an enticing snap of her fingers and one final chord from the band, the debut act of the nightclub singer had come to an end.

Of course, even though the act had ended didn't mean that the show was by any means over.

Elisabeth "Elsie" Hughes, for all her current outward composure, was reeling from the sound of the applause that surrounded her in this moment. It had been a very, _very _long time since people had truly paid attention to her voice and regaled her with such approval. Even when she was considered a second-rate soprano, the applause never sounded this tremendous. In fact, these seconds of roaring acclamation felt like all the things that came before it — her ghastly hotel room, four days of starvation, Mr. Tufton's horrid advances, desperately offering her virtue for a meatball in a last-ditch effort not to starve, handling the _cockroach _with Thomas — had all been quite worth it.

But, applause or not, the song had only been part of the test. An essential part, but only one part. After all, this debut night would only be deemed a success if the song won the crowd and if she could then convince them of her act...

It was time to see if her newfound friend was right in persuading her to give this seemingly ridiculous masquerade a chance. Even if it all fell to pieces in these next few seconds, she at least had this moment of support to carry her on to whatever was next. Maybe, if this didn't work out, she'd accept a job in the service industry and begrudgingly let go of singing for a living. Maybe, if this did work, this could be the way she supported herself for years to come. The woman only knew one thing: she was oblivious when it came to predicting whatever was going to happen next.

_Well, there's not much use in just standing here, is there?_

Graciously accepting the gorgeous mountain of roses now being handed to her — second-rate sopranos _never _got that privilege and she would know — the performer boldly stood her ground. And as a rumbling drum-roll ensued she dramatically took hold of her cloche, a shimmery and extravagant silver headpiece she'd not have chosen herself but accepted as part of the act. Stringing out the suspense for as long as she could, inwardly praying this next bit was a success, the performer slowly pulled the cloche off and revealed her supposed identity to the crowd with as stoic a face as possible.

Silently, she waited with bated breath for the reaction. For better or worse, her living hung in whatever action this audience was going to give her. And though it had been terribly fun strutting about the stage in a manner she never thought possible, it would be even more thrilling if she could continue doing so. But that all depended on the reception of these individuals before her, of whether or not they were genuinely convinced by her act and remained supportive of her.

The return of a thunderous ovation had the woman inwardly sighing in relief as she maintained a neutral demeanour, bowing just as a man might've. Silently thanking them all, she shifted into her posture to mirror a more masculine energy once again, solemnly nodding to the crowd in gratitude.

For acting like a man was the game her career was currently playing, after all.

And, little did she know, she had many in the audience spluttering away with authentic astonishment.

"You mean 'she's a 'he'?" Charlie asked incredulously, as Beryl snickered at his behaviour and Edna outright cackled. Suffice to say, Miss Neal's and Miss Braithwaite's manager was quite tickled by the matter. Charles himself was settling for sitting in a dumbstruck fashion, his face an indifferent mask while his thoughts raced about to process the inordinate surprise.

"Didn't you look at the program?" Alice innocently asked, opening the object in question to the appropriate page. And there it sat, two very contrasting pictures that appeared to be the same person.

_Elisabeth _was written in the bottom left-hand side of the first page, complementing a gorgeous shot of the performer in question, an image that looked undeniably feminine. Yes, after a some severe scrutiny, it was clear that the figure on the left had to have been a woman. _Edward_, on the other hand, unabashedly waited for an in-depth examination on the second page. And with a poise as masculine as the one he took in the picture, there was no denying that Edward looked just like the man he was supposed to be.

"Alice," Beryl chided without any real bite, "You should know by now that Charlie Grigg hardly reads a thing if he can help it, unless it's about his money. Charlie Carson, on the other hand," The man now being commented on turned back to the manager, internally nonplussed even as he desperately feigned impartiality, "I'm surprised you didn't have the program memorized the second you saw it."

"Yes, well," Luckily, another act was starting up and there was no need for him to say anything else. Still, just because there was another act didn't mean he could even begin to start to pay attention. No, the focus of one Charles Carson remained on tonight's astonishing performer — the enigmatic Edward who could somehow take on the bewitching persona of Elisabeth.

He'd seen many a female impersonator before, even the occasional one at his own nightclub. This had felt innately different than those acts. This had felt as though Elisabeth were the genuine article and Edward merely the beguiling act. And it wasn't some sort of homophobic need of his for this to be the case, though Charlie or Beryl might've argued otherwise. Charles knew what his business partner would say if he'd mentioned his theory about the performer and he could only imagine what Alice and Edna's manager would say in response.

Truly though, whatever his colleagues would've said about this, he genuinely found himself believing these particular roles to be reversed. And, though he wouldn't try to blatantly barge into this performer's life like Charlie might've or outright force the truth out of the situation like with Beryl, he was determined to eventually get an answer.

Even if it meant taking a longer vacation from the nightclub than the man anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note: **Hope I didn't scar anyone too terribly with the writing; I do know it was a bit outside of my normal set-up, but that was kind of the goal with all of these - in some way or another.
> 
> In any case, as always, I also hope you enjoyed this series of one-shots and had some fun with all of them! Even though the series is complete, there are just two more things I want to do before officially closing this door:
> 
> **Firstly,** **if you would like _any _of these one-shots to become proper stories**, you need only ask. I can't guarantee anything immediate, of course, but it never hurts to ask.
> 
> **Secondly,** there were many snippets of possibility that came to mind when I was putting all of this together. Therefore, I'm going to put some of the more noteworthy snippets into a bonus chapter that will come out by next Wednesday.
> 
> In any case, I also hope that you have a lovely day! 'Till next time!


	11. The One With The Bonus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note: **Because of your patience and support throughout all of this, I felt it was most appropriate to deliver this final chapter earlier than anticipated. As previously mentioned, these are seven snippets of ideas that I've had in my mind for ages. Pretty much any one of these could be turned into a proper story, _*wink, wink, nudge, nudge*._
> 
> In any case, they do range in seriousness and concept (in other words, **some of them are** absolute **crack** and should not be taken too seriously... you have been warned.).
> 
> With that all being said, I hope you enjoy this! As always, it's been a treasure being able to write for you :)

**The One With The Lead**

**Warning:** A little role-reversal going on, one that fans of the _Dashing Away With The Music Sheets, She Stole My Choir Away_ series might be surprised by...

**Word Count: **1,116

**Rating: **K+

_._

"All right, all right. We've been doing this for seven minutes, I think we can get this right." Alice Neal curtly informed the man standing beside her, looking a bit exasperated by their abnormal lack of progress. "Wouldn't you all say you'd agree?"

"Is that really a question?" Beryl Patmore knowingly piped up from the woman's left side, "Of course, it's just not possible when _someone_ isn't willing to join in and make this all come together once and for all."

"It is not my fault I'm unable to sing!" Elsie Hughes acerbically informed them all from her barstool, keeping a safe distance from the trio of people, "Personally, I think everything sounds brilliant as is!"

"Yes, well," Charles was finding it hard to stay patient with the woman, bothered by the lack of resolution his trio had been having. Simply put, he knew Ms. Hughes' lack of participation had a hand in that lack of resolution and he couldn't understand why she didn't simply get up and join them after all this time of failure. "It may sound brilliant to you, but it is not brilliant. In fact, it does not have any chance for true brilliance until there are at least _four_ people singing a one part, not three. That is why it is a barbershop _quartet_. Not a barbershop _trio_."

Shooting the singer a subtle glare over the rim of her drink — alcohol had been the only true consolation tonight, other than getting a chance to enjoy Beryl's company when the woman wasn't singing away — Elsie proceeded to take another sip before sending off her sixth quip of the evening.

"Aren't the basses supposed to be the down-to-Earth people of the group — the grounded and _easy-going _people of the quartet?" She herself knew a few things about singing and singers, if only because her oldest and dearest friend.

Of course, now having met a bass properly, she was beginning to seriously doubt the stereotype.

"If you must know, I'd normally sing baritone if we were in the men's key." Charles tersely responded, not caring for someone who wasn't going to give this all at least one attempt. The fact that she was only teasing him due to her own personal insecurities did not register. No, by this point, he was seeing her remark as a personal affront to his character.

"Oh, well, in that instance, we all know what _baritones _are like—"

"How about this," Alice could sense the rising tension in the group, not needing this bickering to escalate into something serious. All the other barbershoppers who'd been at the tag night had already headed out for the evening, leaving this trio and Beryl's friend outside to finish up just a few more tags and head off to sleep. And all the woman wanted to do this evening was just that: finish up just a few more tags and head off to sleep. "I'll go back to singing tenor and, Elsie, you can sing lead. And we'll even go back to 'Sunshine' to make it easier."

The reluctant woman remained tucked away in the corner, not sure as to why the trio wasn't just calling it a night. Contrary to what that Charles Carson had said, their little songs they'd been rehearsing for the last ten minutes sounded all right. And, yes, she knew what it was supposed to sound like. She'd already been here for over an hour, as per Beryl's request. Moreover, she obviously also knew that it couldn't be a barbershop quartet if there were only three people. Still, even though she recognized that, she also recognized that their fourth person probably shouldn't be her. Singing in the shower on occasion hardly matched up to singing professionally for twenty years or so.

"Elsie, you get over here right now and I promise I'll never ask you to sing a tag again." Beryl was at a point in which that deal felt like an incredibly reasonable request to make. And, of course, when said deal proved to bring her friend into joining them and officially forming a quartet, the woman could only roll her eyes in vague disbelief.

"Now, since you're singing lead, that'd put you in between Charles and Beryl," Alice informed the approaching woman, stepping over so that she was on Charles' right side now. As though Elsie hadn't been inadvertently drilled on this for the last twenty years. "Quartet formation requires the lead and the bass stand in the middle, and I always get distracted by the melody if I stand next to the lead."

Elsie nodded, not really focused on what the woman was saying. She was about to publicly sing for the first time ever, and surely that meant it was going to turn out badly. Worse still, she had to do it while standing right next to hoity-toity Charles Carson — a man who'd slowly been driving her up the wall with his unending perfectionist tendencies for these last thirty minutes. Surely, that alone meant this was all destined to go down in flames?

"What are the words again?"

"'Sunshine is bidding the day goodbye'." The lone man in the group succinctly spelled out. "And your part goes like," Managing to use his _falsetto _instead of singing her part an octave lower, proving his capacity to sing at least baritone if not tenor, "_'Sunshine is bidding the day goodbye!'_"

Elsie stared at him, quietly recalling the notes as she watched him sing her part of the piece, ignoring the fact that she knew it already. Her part was simple enough to sing this time, with only three different musical notes to remember. It wasn't memorization that was her problem; it was the fact that she was awful at it all. She'd probably make Beryl cringe while Alice would try to simperingly reassure that her voice was decent instead of a public offense. But, of course, if Elsie could rely on anyone to point out her soon-to-be-obvious lack of talent, it would be the one and only Charles Carson. She was sure that, out of everyone, he'd have the most regret letting this occur. In fact, the man would probably carry a deep shame in having let Beryl _inveigle_ her into joining them.

"Ready? Everyone got their notes?"

They all nodded, prompting Alice to play them the pitch and start them off as she belatedly

_Here goes nothing._

Grasping at the air in front of her as though it were a life-line, keeping an eye on her three companions, she waited for Beryl or Charles or even Alice to start them off.

"Elsie, you do realize the lead is the one who cues everyone else in?"

_._

**Author's Note/Terminology Clarification: **A "tag" is a coda-equivalent for a barbershop song with a coda being like the grand finale of a song. "Barbershop", in this instance, is a type of _a cappella _singing. And you can bet your bottom dollar that I got a kick from writing this and I hope you did, too!

Oh, and for those who want to know what some of the stereotypes about baritones are, having proudly sung that part since Day One: we have a tendency to want to work behind the scenes and not touch the melody if we can help it, being very particular to the point where sometimes our fellow choristers think we're overthinking everything. Of course, not all of us are like this, but that's a main tendency for us baris.

And, now, for something a tad more serious...

_._

**The One With The Fall**

**Warning: Canon-_divergent_, pre-Series 5 CS. **Taking a lot of liberties on this one, because why not?

**Word Count: **415

**Rating: **K+

_._

"I'm afraid," Doctor Clarkson had come earlier to examine the butler of the house, having been called the second Mrs. Hughes and Anna had found Mr. Carson at the bottom of the cellar's stairs. However, that had been what now felt like ages ago. Now it was time for the good doctor to announce his diagnosis, much to the growing dread of the housekeeper and her employers. "That it looks to be a case of amnesia."

"'Amnesia'?" Lord Grantham demanded, not incredibly familiar with the term even if it did ring somewhat of a bell. Mrs. Hughes kept a sharp eye on the doctor despite this exclamation, having no desire to put any focus on watching the family in this moment.

Perhaps, had it been Lady Mary or someone else she had less fondness for, Elsie would be more determined detachedly observe the proceedings as a whole. That way she could anticipate both the needs of her employers as well as the future usage of the staff in this instance. As it stood, there were only two people she cared about in this instance: the one who had fallen and the one who would be able to give her the information she needed.

Therefore, the good doctor was the only one who held and would continue to hold most of her focus for now.

"Simply put, Lord Grantham, Mr. Carson has temporarily lost his memories. Not_ all_ of his memories, mind, but I'd estimate at least those of the last twenty years."

The shock wasted no time in settling in and neither did the borderline-impertinent questions: "Is he expected to regain his memories or is this a permanent lost, Doctor?"

"Robert," Cora reprimanded the harsh words that unashamedly took to the air, even if she was wondering similarly. Dr. Clarkson hesitated at this, knowing that the answer he had was undesirable at best.

"There have been cases where the patient has recovered their memory; however, I cannot guarantee when or even if that'll happen." He neutrally informed them, doing his best to keep solemnity out of his tone.

Well, _that_ cheered the housekeeper up immensely.

And while this latest information would explain as to why Mr. Carson hadn't recognized Anna when he'd initially woken up, there was one other question it did not answer. That would be the question of why, upon stirring back into consciousness at the bottom of the steps, he had referred to the housekeeper of Downton as— as—

As his _wife_.

_._

**The One With The Spell**

**Warning: **Don't let the canon-setting of this convince you it should be taken seriously. Because, **it is** essentially **crack being taken seriously**.

**Word Count: **1,090

**Disclaimer:** I don't own either _Harry Potter _or _Downton Abbey_.

**Rating: **K+

_._

He'd been intent on retiring hours ago, watching as everyone had eventually filed up the steps and up to their respective beds. But, a fascination with double-checking the wine ledger had led to him inadvertently burning the midnight oil. Which did happen once in a blue moon, but rarely resulted in him working _past_ midnight. Nevertheless, if the man ever did as such, it typically only resulted in him trudging up darkened steps and navigating the dimly lit corridors of what has been his home for as long as he could possibly remember.

Now, that was the normal routine.

Tonight, however, there seemed to something different.

That is, there seemed to be something different other than the fact his midnight oil had long since burned out and he was still here.

_Why on earth is she still up at this hour?_ The strangest part was that the man remembered watching her walking up the steps with the others hours ago, signaling that she was calling it a day. She hadn't dropped by to bid him a good evening or take a sherry in his pantry as per usual, it was true. Still, he couldn't really fault her the lack of contact this evening. It was rather understandable why: it'd been a whirlwind of a week for them both. And such a week tended to result in the both of them needing alone time to recover from the stress of it all.

But, wait a minute — _had_ he in fact seen her go up the stairs? The man recalled hearing the hefty footfalls of Mrs. Patmore, vaguely observed the dainty creeping along of Daisy, remembered the sound of slithering about that was Thomas Barrow, but— but, he hadn't been a witness to the delightful cadence of keys trailing after wonderfully familiar steps.

Yet, he could have sworn that he remembered thinking she'd already gone to bed, concluding that he was the only one left in the downstairs area. But, after another moment of indecisive pondering, he couldn't reach any sort of legitimate conclusion.

Well, no matter: it only gave the man one final excuse to enjoy her company this late evening.

Approaching the door, belatedly giving his customary knock, Charles Carson settled for tiredly cracking the door open and wearily sticking his head—

"Mrs. Hughes?" The exclamation was far sharper than normal, but it made perfect sense for the sight before him:

It was another late night for the housekeeper of Downton Abbey. Another night with a nice cuppa beside her as she rifled through various administrative tasks that fell to a servant of her status. It easily would have been another average scene for the butler to witness, except for the fact that her cuppa was actually floating in mid-air next to her and there seemed to be some sort of magical wand in her hand.

This discovery was made, of course, right as the woman had been in the process of levitating some papers in order to reorganize them — an action that confounded him even further. That she had a wand, that she appeared to be in the process of witchcraft, that she was magically perusing _Downton's_ papers of all things, it was all too much for the man to comprehend.

_What on earth— How was it— **Why had he never****—**_"Mr. Carson!" The papers plummeted to the floor as her chair sharply swiveled in his direction, the tea cup smashing into the unforgiving ground. The magic came to a cracking stop, the woman gaping at the figure before her. "You were _not_ supposed to be here!"

Before he could say anything in response, the door seemingly pushed him into the room before slamming shut behind him — panicked wandless magic shooting out and locking them both inside the room. Without another word, the pair was stuck in her room, whether any sort of resolution was reached now, no one would know for hours.

Charles flinched, looking back at the door in appalled astonishment, turning back to the housekeeper and somehow managing to retrieve a collected air in spite of everything. At least, he appeared collected on the outside. On the inside, a nauseating sensation of discombobulation had ruthlessly taken over the man.

"You also practice magic? You're a witch?" As preposterous as the idea seemed, what else could he conclude? How else could that tea cup have been floating? Or the papers being summoned for that matter?

"Now, while I do _not_ care for that term, Mr. Carson—" A bit of Mrs. Hughes' normal temperament showed itself for a moment before the rest of his statement had caught up with her and the woman trailed off in her thoughts. "What on earth do you mean 'also'?"

Mentally berating himself for the slip, knowing that his remark had only added more chaos to the moment and would force him to reveal something of a rather personal nature, the man cautiously approached the desk. Her wand remained rigidly pointed in his direction throughout all of this, yet he somehow knew she would not use it. Not right now, at least. In any case, he had a job to do and a delicate trust to regain. So, kneeling down beside the broken glass with great consideration, he murmured a soft "_Reparo,"_ and presented the housekeeper with a completely repaired teacup — one without the tea, unfortunately.

"I may have also withheld certain facts as well."

It was a heavy and sheepish confession, the man now inwardly kicking himself for having such a strong reaction to the discovery. Knowing that another soul in the house — not just any soul, mind, _her _soul — practised magic, he couldn't help the shock that had slammed into him. For years he'd been carefully gone about life in a fashion that may not have been nearly as enchanting as he'd like but was still quite rewarding. That isn't to say he _never_ practiced magic; only that he didn't practice nearly as he might've wanted to.

Regardless, it looked like the housekeeper was finally about to voice her reaction to this. And frankly, he knew that whatever it was that she would say next would dictate the rest of their time together at Downton from here on out.

"Have you now?" Archly spoken, Mrs. Hughes lifted an eyebrow to accentuate her acerbic tone. The wand was still out and prepared to act, but her initial wariness had disappeared for now. "Is there anything else you wish to share, Mr. Carson?"

He didn't humourlessly chuckle, though it was a close thing.

_._

**Author's Note: **In all seriousness, can you imagine the whole series through the lens of Carson and Hughes being able to perform magic? Just think of all of the things that might have been solved much more easily, as well as the goofiness brought about by adding in (and having to hide) magic.

_._

**The One With The Starship**

**Author's Note: **Although I am condensing the original writing into more of a "snippet", this is indeed the original piece that I substituted "The One With The Restaurant" for in the official collection.

**Word Count: **851

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Star Trek._

**Warnings: **You may finish this with the urge to punch a certain _Star Trek_ character after reading this. Please know that, while it is entirely understandable, violence is not the answer.

**Rating: **K+, maybe a light T

_._

If she didn't end up slapping this arrogant being in the face, it would be a miracle.

"Q," The smug alien promptly stopped talking, knowing what that terse equivalent of his name implied. He knew he was treading into dangerous waters. And though he was considered to be omnipotent as well as chaotically audacious, he wasn't stupid.

Really, he did recognize one of the defining qualities of the woman before him: Captain Elsie Hughes refused to be intimidated. Not by this arrogant being. Not by this alien who had enough power he thought it was his right to go swaggering about the quadrants of space, not by this creature who had dared to insolently speak to her whilst mocking her first officer and dearest friend. "You haven't answered my question, Q: what do you want with us?"

"Oh, I want nothing to do with your ship, _Captain_ Hughes." Even the title was dripping in sardonicism as Q spoke. Still, unbeknownst to everyone on the bridge, that was only the start of his truly indecent actions.

"And just what do you want?" Anna Bates, the Communications Officer of the _USS Violet_, snapped as she reached for her phaser. Q didn't care in the slightest what she thought she could do here, starting to snicker dismissively as though her phaser were a water gun. Well, if this haughty being thought he could boss the lot of them around, none of the crew had any qualms about proving him wrong.

But, before anyone could do anything to stop him, the alien was already snapping out another "Oh, give it a rest will you?"

The crew stiffened in response, though he didn't even bat an eyelash. Instead, he continued to unapologetically speak with a grand energy.

"As I mentioned before, I'm not interested in any of you. Rather,"

Q's smile slinked into something a little more sordid as he himself sauntered over to the Captain's chair — leaning in to whisper something to her with a sleazy ease. He ignored Commander Carson's disgusted scowl at his approach, as well as Lieutenant Commander O'Brien's twitch towards the spare phaser resting on her console. The Chief Security Officer was close enough to try to stun the alien if she really wanted to, and she _really_ wanted to. Though, judging from the Captain's indiscreet shake of the head, O'Brien knew that now was not the time for such actions.

"My Fair Captain," Commander Elsie Hughes glared at the pretentiously silky tone — not caring for the term "My Fair Captain" even if it was a step up from "dear Elsie" — and found her displeasure rapidly increasing as he continued to murmur only to her, "I will find a way to repay my debt to you."

"That's hardly necessary." The commanding officer coldly spoke, finding it terribly hard to believe the alien's sincerity. This was all probably less about his owing her a debt and more about his being bored or some stupid equivalent. "Just return my first officer's voice to him and get off my ship."

"Of course it's necessary," Q gave an oily sneer, ignoring her requests and somehow even closer to her face than he had been a few seconds ago. "For all your help back on—"

"_That's_ an action I will continue to regret the longer you remain in my presence. So, perhaps, for the sake of this 'debt'," The word was curtly flung at him, irately slapping the alien even though the woman hadn't lifted a finger. "You ought to let the matter go."

The alien snorted with derision at this, cocking an eyebrow as blatant feelings of superiority slid across his stare. It seemed he wouldn't be letting anything go anytime soon, not when it came to this particular Starfleet Officer.

"Relax, My Fair Captain, I wouldn't dare to linger where I'm not wanted." Q chuckled, "But, truly, you've no idea what _power_ I could possibly provide you with, what possibilities I could grant you. With my capabilities, you could lead an entirely different life, go through a completely different way of existence." A harsh protest was forming for the woman, one that insisted she loved her life as it was, but the alien unapologetically cut her off once again — blithely continuing. "But, don't worry: I'll be back before you know it."

With another smug smirk and snap of the fingers, Q disappeared in a blinding flash of white light. And though it looked as if nothing had occurred after everything, an uneasiness still gripped the bridge. No one felt reassured by the alien's absence, least of all Captain Hughes or Commander Carson. In fact, the first officer would feel remiss in his duties if he didn't privately ask his commanding officer about the incident at some point in the near-future. While the alien didn't seem to pose a legitimate security risk, there was something deeply unsettling about the encounter.

The worst part? Within that snap of a second, there was only one conclusion that could be drawn from the incident:

This mission wasn't going to be easy.

And it was only just getting started.

_._

**The One With The Cinder**

**Warning: **More shameless crack is ahead! Of all the snippets today, _**this is the goofiest/crackiest. **_Liberties of all kinds have been taken to an extreme - names, pocket watches, you name it. You've been warned.

**Word Count: **959

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the story (Cinderella), the fanfiction ("Fairy Tale Life" by Moonlite Knite), or even the film (Disney's 1997 _Cinderella_) that inspired this. And if that doesn't give away the premise, I don't know what will... ;)

**Rating: **K+

_._

"So, you're telling me that you're supposed to be my," Struggling to find the appropriate words, the unfortunate footman settled for outright staring at the woman in vague disdain. "My 'Fairy Godcook'?"

"Yes, Cindercarson." Why Mrs. Patmore was also calling him by that stupid name — much like Barrow, O'Brien, and even Denker insisted on doing so earlier — he still couldn't figure out. Why this stupid fantasy existed in the first place, for it had to be a ludicrous dream with its ridiculous plot, was also something he'd been unable to comprehend. All the man wanted to do was wake up from it all and get back to reality.

All he seemed able to do was play along with this silly farce.

"And you also mean to tell me that you will have to," _Whack me upside the head _seemed an appropriate description for the action, but Charles didn't dare utter it. "Bestow your power on me?"

"That's right."

Right. This little sort of fiction hadn't been amusing when O'Brien and Thomas had declared themselves to be housekeeper and butler of Downton. It had become somewhat entertaining, if not a bit alarming upon Mrs. Patmore's unorthodox entrance. But, now?

Now, it was proving to be far more of an irritant than anything else.

"Please, 'Fairy Godcook'," If he could only wake up from what had to be a dream, he'd find the situation tolerable. As it stood, it was astonishing that the butler had been able to concoct such a bizarre scene in his mind. Frankly, he'd like to think his subconscious wouldn't reduce him to a state of existence wherein he had to refer to the cook of Downton in this fashion. "If you cannot find it within you to call me Mr. Carson, please call me Charles."

The man loathed the casual nature that came with hearing his Christian name, not wanting her to cross unspoken boundaries and certainly not wanting to think about the implications. Propriety existed in all forms, even in dreams, and it was to be upheld no matter the cost. Yet, for all the propriety he wished to uphold, he would take being called Charles over "Cindercarson" any day — which was really saying something.

"If you insist, _Charles_." Pointedly staring at her Fairy Godson, the Mrs. Patmore look-alike crossed her arms and waited him out, returning back to the original conversation. "Now, are you going to let me 'bestow' you or not?"

_"Not" is much more preferable, thank you._ "But, what if none of it works?"

"Haven't I told you time and time again, it all will?"

Yes, she had. And, unfortunately, if that special ladle of his supposed guardian angel did work as she said it would, her scheme would indeed work. His magical clothes would fit and he'd look decent enough to go to this blasted ball and he wouldn't be able to go back to pouring over the books — the only thing he had wanted to get done this evening.

But, if that special ladle listened to what the Fairy _Godson_ wanted, the clothes would threaten to rip upon materializing on his person and he would just have to let go of the supposed privilege that came with going to this ball. He'd be forced to call it an early night and then it'd only be a matter of figuring out how on earth he was supposed to wake himself up.

Truly, as much as he enjoyed the style of that sort of ceremony and everything that came with such festivities, Charles really enjoyed presenting it himself. There was something about knowing the work that went into the presentation that really did it for him. A sense of accomplishment always came about when all the divine details became entwined together to create a splendid atmosphere of timeless grace.

He had no guarantee of any sort of similar grace by humouring this woman and attending this ball everyone wouldn't stop talking about. Quite the opposite, if he were to be candid. The longer his supposed "Fairy Godcook" stood here and informed him of the fact that he simply needed to attend this social festivity, the longer he clung to the belief that it would not be worth it.

"Must I?"

She snorted at this, undoubtedly taking glee from his transparent frustration with everything. Some magical culinary guardian she was turning out to be.

"You wouldn't give me the storage key even though O'Brien had already promised me I could have it," Why the storage cupboard would have been necessary for the situation hadn't made a wink of sense to Charles. Additionally, even though Mrs. Hughes was nowhere in sight, it had felt highly inappropriate to be in charge of giving his supposed Fairy Godcook the key. Hence, his forbidding the woman from taking it. "So this is what you get. You can either wear that, or you can get sacked when Mrs. O'Brien or Mr. Barrow recognize you at the ball, your choice."

Well, if this bizarre hallucination wasn't coming to an end, it looked like he'd have to get on with it. Nevertheless, if this Mrs. Patmore look-a-like expected him to go dancing in the arms of some random aristocrat — or, worse still, a member of the house who had wound up in this ridiculous dream — he'd be drawing a line. There was being foolish by wearing an outfit made for a lord of high degree and then there was outright lunacy. And Charles Carson fancied himself many things — sharp, clever, distinguished, filled to the brim with decorum — but a lunatic was not one of them.

Which, speaking of lunacy, "And you're absolutely sure Thomas or O'Brien won't recognize me?"

"Does an apple crumble fall apart?"

Well, _that_ wasn't particularly reassuring.

_._

**The One With the Waltz**

**Author's Note: **Speaking of dancing….

**Word Count: **1,424

**Warning:** **Pre-show** canon-divergence and totally taking liberties once again with this one. _**NOT **_absolute crack.

**Rating: **K+

_._

_ **November, 1897** _

"What in God's name are you doing_?_"

_Charles Carson, you are one to talk!_ Elsie bit down on her ire at the interruption, flashes of memory swirling around her skirts as she came to a stop. If the second footman was about to lecture them about propriety and how dancing was highly inappropriate, especially at this late hour, she'd have to strongly fight the urge to remind him about what almost happened in 1895.

Of course, she wouldn't dare bring up anything at the present moment, but that was besides the point! If the man thought he could berate them now for something that was far more harmless than what she was convinced almost happened back then, she'd show him the level of hypocrisy he was indulging in. After all, it was the principle behind the situation that mattered.

"When you had informed me you were handling the matter of the waltz, this wasn't what I had envisioned, Benjamin!"

_What?_

The fourth footman in question, Benjamin "Bennie" Wall, retreated into himself at the stern lecture and looked at Charles Carson as the second footman continued to disapprovingly look on. She could only stare with a masked bewilderment, having absolutely no clue as to what was this conversation was now about.

"Charles," Even though she still hadn't a clue what was going on, Elsie knew that terse lectures would get them nowhere. "Will you kindly explain to me exactly what you are referring to?"

Realizing who was witnessing this lecture, the footman in question looked nearly sheepish. Though said sheepishness was only obvious to the trained eye, "Perhaps, Benjamin ought to explain the situation."

But before the fourth footman could speak, "I do believe I asked _you_."

Nearly scowling at the impertinence, he decided to humour his colleague and friend: "A few weeks ago, Benjamin had been wise enough to ask for advice in regards to advancing at Downton. We had started with the essential matters, which he _still _needs improvement on," Her acerbic glare kept him going, shutting down that tirade-in-the-making, "However, upon realizing that he had no prior experience when it came to waltzing, I soon realized that would have to take precedence, what with the Servants Ball only a month away. He proceeded to inform me that he'd 'handle the matter' himself and we left it alone."

"Which is why he had come to me for help." Elsie finished the elaboration far more calmly, now eyeing the downcast fourth footman instead. Said individual currently looked as though he'd been sent outside to suffer in the night's rain. In any case, the whole matter — Bennie's odd request for lessons that she hadn't really minded, the agreement that it would be far less disruptive to practice in the later hours, etc. — now made a lot more sense.

The fact that it also, in retrospect, had sounded eerily familiar to 1895 explained just as well why she'd been so at ease with the situation from the beginning.

In this day and age, it would have normally been terribly improper of her to have agreed to this, regardless of Bennie's true intentions or her own comfort with the situation. However, a few dance lessons would not stop her from obtaining the position of housekeeper in this house. Furthermore, Joe Burns was long gone from her life and likely never to return, Charles Carson was clearly uninterested and had married himself to his job, and she knew that Bennie only had eyes for Geraldine. Thus, this scheme truly was only designed to teach lessons on the waltz. And, it had been planned for the late-hours if only so as to avoid the wrath of the rather aged Mr. Inglesby and Mrs. Dunne.

"And, still," Realizing that Charles was continuing on, the head housemaid hurriedly brought her focus back to him, "Observing for even a brief period of time informs me that there has been absolutely no progress."

_You and your bloody standards, _Elsie mentally huffed to herself, far too used to this to be terribly surprised. That's what started this whole blasted waltz business in the first place; that conversation back then, the one wherein she was determined to prove that his standards could do with a little rethinking. The one where he'd tried to show her that his standards were perfectly fine as is, and that others could rise to them instead of demanding he lower them. That's what had lead to _that _moment, and — and she needed to focus on something else if she wanted to refrain from recalling everything that'd long since been swept under the rug.

"Charles Carson, you do realize we'd only just begun this evening's lesson?"

Judging from the sudden red tint in his cheeks and the desperate attempt not to furrow his eyebrows, that realization had not been the initial case.

"Well, even so," _Oh, and how are you going to defend yourself now__?_ "According to Benjamin, these lessons have been occurring for two weeks now. There should be some improvement by this point. However, it looks much like what he'd demonstrated to me _three _weeks, with no improvement in sight."

Well, that much was true. Although Bennie had been endearingly determined to improve, he was also proving to need quite a few lessons before becoming acclimated to the waltz. And, though she didn't bite her lip at this accurate comment — she was far too vexed with the second footman now to do persist in actions like that — the head housemaid did glance away for a brief spell in faintly embarrassed recognition.

"Well, then," It sounded like Benjamin was getting too flustered to remain quiet, "Why don't _you _show me how to do it, if I can't ever improve?"

"I'm sure not that's not what Charles meant," They did not pay her enough to deal with this sort of drama. Especially considering Charles was blatantly ignoring her attempt to smooth things over, now walking over to the duo with a growing disdain written all over his face. "I personally have seen improvement in the rather _short _amount of time we've had to practice." If, by improvement, she meant he'd managed to avoid stepping on her feet six times in a row, then, yes, she had seen it for herself.

However, it looked like her colleague's current plans didn't bother to avoid scandal:

"I'd be delighted to."

_I could kill that man. _Apparently, a challenge was still a challenge in the eyes of the second footman. Striding up to the pair of them, Charles intently gazed at Bennie, forcing the younger servant to step aside just by staring him down. Only once that stepping aside did occur, did he regally turn to the woman in question — as though her consent had already been given.

"Right. Elsie, if you would be so kind?"

He'd intentionally refrained from repeating his exact words from two years ago, no doubt ashamed of what had transpired afterwards. Yes, well, she didn't terribly mind that, still trying to unearth a polite way to reject this challenge and stop this unnecessary atmosphere from building into something worse. If Charles left them alone, she'd make sure that Bennie was in decent enough shape to traverse the Servants Ball with enough grace to pass the second footman's unnecessarily high standards. And if Bennie refrained from challenging Charles on subjects the second footman was quite the expert in, they would all be able to walk away from this fiasco with their dignity intact.

"_That's _how you ask a pretty girl to dance?" It seemed Bennie was regaining some of his bravado, much to both Charles and Elsie's irritation. The former, if only because that was _no _way to address the young woman or any woman in general. The latter because she did not take to the sort of tone and she had _not _agreed to any of this in the first place.

Thankfully, at the sight of their combined glares, the fourth footman immediately shut himself up and looked appropriately abashed. Thus, turning once more to his colleague and friend, forcing his eyes to meet hers as much as etiquette demanded, Charles began to properly go about the matter, much like before. 

"Elsie Hughes," She resisted the temptation to sharply breathe in at the familiarity of the situation, a silly form of sentimentality overtaking the ever-professional head housemaid. "May I have the honour of this dance?"

_Great. _Now, it was up to her to get them out of this ghastly situation.

Oh, why did they do this to themselves?

_._

**Author's Note: **Think of the premise for the aforementioned piece being one of those "X Times They Didn't Waltz, One Time They Did" sort of pieces, if that helps at all with the imagination.

_._

**The One With The Switch**

**Author's Note: **This is the _**final**_ piece of the collection! Hope you enjoy it! This also takes place in the 30s/40s, so it's automatically an AU, regardless of the other details.

**Word Count: **773

**Warning: Crack** being taken seriously once again. Also, _**skip**_ _this __**if you don't want to see Chelsie as bad guys **_who are inherently different than canon.

****Disclaimer: ****Like before, I don't own _Downton Abbey_. Additionally, I don't own _The Little Vampire _or _Agatha Christie's Poirot_, which are the other inspiring pieces for this.

**Rating: **Absolute T

_._

"I beg your pardon, Miss, but are you all right?"

She'd hardly been in the mood for company, let alone that of a supposed-gentleman. No doubt, judging from his tone, he thought her too fragile to be traipsing through the English countryside. Nevertheless, her upbringing had conditioned manners into her. And since she still had a ways to go and wasn't expected anywhere until tomorrow, there was no harm in cordiality. As it stood, the woman could barely afford any rooms in the area. So, not only would it be easier to obtain a room through this stranger, if he really irritated her she could just poison the man by morning.

Glancing up to coyly meet his eyes, she found herself somewhat amused by the overtly concerned face before her. Biting her lip just like she'd rehearsed many times and looking as though she wanted to insecurely curl in on herself, she played the role of an ingenue exceedingly well.

"I think I'm a little lost, sir. My name's Nurse Hughes, Elsie Hughes, and," Not only did she know exactly where she was, she was outright lying about her name: Nurse Elsie Hughes was only the latest alias for Mary Draper née Reilly, one of many she'd crafted over the years. "And I had taken a train from Argyll and thought I knew how to get to the village, but…"

Trailing off ever so daintily, Mary pursed her lips as though genuinely worried. And if she happened to timidly cross her arms together underneath her chest, accentuating certain parts of her body in the process, that was pure coincidence. It's not as though she knew many gentlemen had a tendency to unwittingly notice those sorts of things.

"Well, Nurse Hughes, I'm Charles Carson." She smiled warmly at that, inwardly not in the mood for introductions. Even though this man would speed up the process by inevitably letting her ride with him in his car, she didn't really care who he was. The only important thing was that she had a mission to get to and that he'd be unintentionally helping her along. "I don't suppose I can give you a lift into town?"

"That'd be much appreciated, Mr. Carson," Who was she to refuse when he was offering a ride free of charge? "A friend invited me to Downton for the weekend, and I'd hate to be late by getting even more lost."

It was another lie on her part; she was really here to win over a tidy inheritance by poisoning the last of her estranged family. The poisoning was to be accomplished by posing as a nurse who had been hired to help her dying sister. Since her dear sister was suffering from extreme memory lost, there would be no chance of recognition. And after a fair amount of time, her sister would pass on into the next life via an accidental overdose. Only a few months later, once some other odds and ends were taken care of with the remaining family, she could claim the inheritance from a re-established distance. It was a simple enough job, she just needed to get to the estate, prepare her poisons and set-up shop for the next few months.

"Well, now, that won't do." Little did Mary Draper know, Charles Carson was not the stranger's name. Nor was he the kind and gentle soul he appeared to be. No, she was quite mistaken in that assessment of the man. Though, it wasn't her fault; many others before her had made that same mistake. "Not when I'm capable of taking you into town."

No one knew the real name of the man who was calmly offering Mary Draper a ride. All that could ever be gleaned from him were the following facts: despite his accent, he hailed from Scotland and was paying England a visit as a favour to an old friend. His specific mission at this time? To track down and eliminate the vampires surrounding the Yorkshire county, specifically the area of Downton. It was a simple enough job, he just needed to find an abandoned cottage nearby and set-up shop for the next few months.

"Are you sure, Mr. Carson?" _I can't believe you're being this foolish, but if you insist._

"But, of course, Nurse Hughes." _Rather trusting, aren't you?_

Still, there was one thing they could both agree on. Something that came to mind as she tenderly placed her luggage into the back of his car and delicately took a seat beside him in the vehicle:

_So long as you don't get in the way of my job, I could care less._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note: **That's all for now, folks! Though, as previously mentioned, I'm more than happy to lengthen _any _of these stories (the one-shots _**and**_ the snippets). They probably won't be the same length as the "Dashing Away" series and it'll take a bit of time, but I'm down to write them out. And, _**if you'd like**_ to make _**multiple requests**_, simply prioritize them so I know what people really want.
> 
> Just leave a review if you're interested, and I'll see what I can do. And, I'll probably add in an additional author's note on this story with updates.
> 
> In any case, as always, I hope you have a lovely day!


	12. The One With The Author's Note

Greetings and Salutations!

I figured, as a way to help keep track of which one-shots have been lengthened into stories, I'd post this little tracker/guide below. **This does include the bonus snippets**. Moreover, if you have any special requests, you're more than welcome to leave a review/comment and ask:  
  


**Completed, Published Works:**

"The One With The Keys" **can be found under:** "Those Lovely, Unsought Keys"

"The One With The Cinder" **can be found under: **"The One With The Cinder"

**Posted Although Incomplete:**

"The One With The Fall" **can be found under **"Her Little Secret, His Little Dream"

**In-Progress and Requested:**

"The One With The Warehouse"

"The One With The Tattoo"

"The One With The Dinosaurs"

"The One With The Dragon"

"The One With The Waltz"

**In-Progress and Totally Game to Have Requested:**

"The One With The Trapeze"

"The One With The Restaurant"

"The One With The Vigilantism"

"The One With The Security Officer"

"The One With The Voice"

"The One With The Lead"

"The One With The Spell"

"The One With The Starship"

"The One With The Switch"

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note: **Definitely AU in more than one way! For instance, according to my friend, dance trapeze is something that has only really occurred within the last twenty years or so. Nevertheless, this begged to be written and who am I to deny my muse?
> 
> Also, fun fact: apparently circus performers like trapeze artists and the likes did do the occasional stunt in a dance hall or equivalent back in the day. Therefore, even though this one-shot was probably terribly inaccurate in a few regards (cue a "Damn it, Jim, I'm a doctor not a trapeze artist!") there are some things I think I got right. Additionally, I did some digging: some of those circus costumes were _incredibly _risqué for the era. So much so I had to double-check that it was the Victorian era, since that'd be the approximate era this would've gone on for them, age-wise.
> 
> Moreover, if you were interested to know the music that originally accompanied my friend's performance, look up and listen to the "Montage" lyric video from the movie _Swiss Army Man_. Pay particular attention to the music during 1:50-2:43. The act itself was longer (and the music complements overall), of course, but that specific moment inspired this story. That's when my friend spun around like "a lady of high degree ascending the sky" and had me want to give the trapeze a shot.
> 
> **General Collection Note: **As previously mentioned, all pieces have essentially been written up and now only require polishing up. Therefore, keep an eye out for the next one-shot, _The One With The Warehouse_. This one is a crossover with the TV show _Warehouse 13 _and should come out by next Wednesday night (PST). Better still, take a look at a little teaser for what's in store...
> 
> **Teaser:**
> 
> "Dude, is she okay? Because, I'm not convinced. Like, at all."
> 
> Artie Nielsen did not glare at Claudia Donovan's question, knowing that it came from a place of concern. Obviously, his charge recognized the look of suffering this stranger clung to in the silence. The American teenager undoubtedly saw it as a parallel of how life was for her when her brother Joshua seemed lost forever, when he was just out of reach and her parents were long gone. And since the stranger in question was oblivious to their presence — no doubt, a result of the time loop that brought the two agents here in the first place — Claudia could be as blunt as she liked.
> 
> "She'll be okay." Though Artie has felt sympathy for this unknown woman all these years, this exhausted individual who wearily continued to stand in the center of this grand and defeated hall, the situation was a construct of an artifact. This could all be solved, everything could be neutralized through their efforts, and this ever-present grief could finally be put to rest. "Nothing's changed."
> 
> Essentially, the American agent's current theory was that the situation was brought about by a memory from an earlier time, a memory that was triggered by an artifact and repetitively came to life at a certain time. Hence, it was harmless in the grand scheme; there had been and would probably be no repercussions from letting this scene of grief play out once again. At least, no repercussions that had been serious enough to warrant a visit back sooner.
> 
> _Though, I don't remember her—_
> 
> "Wait, so you've been here before, Artie?"
> 
> _Of course I've been here before, Claudia. _The naive question incurred a slight, disbelieving scoff from the agent. Said scoff soon shifted into a sigh of bemusement that quickly gave way to thinly veiled vexation — bemusement from the memories now being triggered, vexation from his charge's lack of attention.
> 
> Though, was it really Claudia's fault that this cold case, this quiet enigma that had captivated Downton Abbey every night for the last eighty years, had haunted his innermost thoughts all this time?


End file.
